Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  Chad arrived later that afternoon to help me carry the last few boxes over to his apartment. He was wearing a blue button-up shirt, navy shorts, and white Adidas sneakers. “Great,” I said, getting up off the floor. “I’m all sweaty and nasty and you look like you just stepped out of a J.Crew catalog.”

  Chad flashed his perfect white teeth and laughed. Looking around, he said, “I’m always amazed by how small apartments look when they’re empty.”

  “Wait until you see how small your apartment is going to feel with someone else living in it.”

  “That sounds cozy,” he said, snuggling his face into my neck. Chad was the perpetual optimist.

  “I’d be careful if I were you,” I said, pulling away. “I desperately need a bath. Come help me with these boxes.”

  Before I closed the door to my apartment, I took one last look around, as though I was the lead actor in the series finale of a long-running sitcom. There were no tears or mixed emotions, only excitement. I was making the right decision.

  At Chad’s apartment building, the doorman loaded up the trolley with all of my belongings and Chad wheeled it into the elevator. Outside his apartment, he said, “Okay, this is it. Your last chance to back out.”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked. “You’re supposed to carry me over the threshold.”

  “Maybe after you shower.”

  Just as we stepped into the apartment, I heard a group shout, “Surprise!”

  Michael Lyon was standing in the center of the living room, dressed in a black shirt and the same black-and-white-striped pants, surrounded by several of Chad’s friends holding champagne glasses. “Congratulations,” said Michael. “Have a drink.”

  “Did you know about this?” I asked Chad.

  “I had no idea,” he said. “They showed up right as I was leaving for your apartment. So I let them in, and they’ve been waiting here the whole time.”

  “That was very thoughtful of you, Michael. I’d kiss you, but I reek.”

  “You can kiss me later or write me a prescription for Oxycontin,” he said, handing me a glass. “Everyone, I’d like to make a toast to Chad and Frank. I never thought we’d see our dear old friend Chad married off again, but here we are, and to a doctor no less. Frank, may you and Chad have a long and happy life together. Thank you for taking him off our hands. He’s your problem now.”

  Sipping champagne, I realized I had successfully pared down my life to fit into several boxes, two suitcases, and one small shoe box. Looking around the room, it was apparent I’d collected a whole new group of friends in the process.

  ONCE I WAS SETTLED INTO CHAD’S APARTMENT, I began meeting with Dr. McGovern twice a week: Monday mornings before work and Wednesday evenings. Each time I walked to her office, I worried that I had nothing to say. No sooner did my ass hit the seat than I was rambling incessantly. Therapy became the outlet I needed to talk about Bill, my parents, Chad, and even Eric. For one guilt-free hour twice a week, there were no limits to the subjects I was able to discuss, yet they always somehow came back to Bill.

  “The private investigator located Nicholas. He’s living in Topeka, Kansas, and he’s married with a child. I want to call him, but the only contact number I have is the Topeka Police Department. Apparently, he works there as a dispatcher.”

  “What would you say to him if you called?”

  “You mean what would I say to him if he didn’t hang up on me?”

  “Why would he do that?” she asked, adjusting herself in her chair so that she was sitting on her feet.

  “Think about it,” I said. “Imagine if some stranger called you out of the blue and said, ‘Hi, my name is Dr. Spinelli. I was a Boy Scout thirty years ago, and my Scoutmaster was a man by the name of Bill Fox. I believe he is the same man who adopted you in 1982. Oh yeah, and by the way, he molested me when I was eleven.’ ”

  “Is that really what you would say?”

  “No. I don’t know what I would say. That’s why I haven’t called him. But I know that I will soon, because I need to hear his voice.”

  “What’s that all about?” she asked, cocking her head to one side. “This need to hear him speak.”

  “Hearing his voice would make him real. For the past few months, I’ve been staring at a photograph of a sixteen-year-old boy on the cover of that damned book, which, by the way, sits on my nightstand. I need to put a voice to that face.”

  Dr. McGovern sat up, her feet now planted firmly on the floor. “You have Bill’s book on your nightstand?”

  “I have several: Bill’s book, The Boy Scout Handbook, and a book that chronicles the history of pedophilia within the Boy Scouts. Oh, and a copy of Anna Karenina.”

  “And you don’t think you’re consumed with this investigation?”

  “I see your point, but I have to remain immersed in this story. It’s the only way I’ll get the authorities to take me seriously.”

  Dr. McGovern stared at me warily. “Let’s go back to your need to hear Nicholas speak. We should explore this.”

  “That would be interesting. I have many theories why I need to speak with Nicholas.” I leaned forward. “So, Bill adopts this boy, who really isn’t a boy at all. He’s sixteen years old. Pedophiles generally go after the same type of boy. Bill apparently likes them young, prepubescent or on the verge of puberty, right? So why, then, would he go after a teenager, a boy who is less impressionable or less inclined to be taken in by him? Let’s face it. Nicholas was on the verge of suicide. He had been through a lot of shit. This kid was no kid. He was street-smart, and the book clearly states that he did not trust Bill at first. Bill had to coax him off that ledge. He had to gain his trust. It took a long time for that adoption to go through. Bill used this time wisely to groom Nicholas properly. Grooming a sixteen-year-old street-smart boy was going to be trickier than a naïve eleven-year-old. Besides, Bill had just stepped down as Scoutmaster. Why would he risk another accusation? This teenager could have made a lot of trouble for him. They were already getting quite a bit of publicity.”

  “Maybe Bill never molested him?” she suggested.

  “That’s the logical answer. The question, then, is why did Nicholas leave Bill and go back to his mother less than a year after the adoption? Something must have happened. Bill gave him a home, an education, everything this boy ever wanted. Why leave?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t believe Bill stopped molesting children. Sure, maybe he didn’t molest Nicholas. He was sixteen and too old for Bill, but child molesters don’t just stop one day. I think Nicholas saw something he didn’t like, and that’s why he left. Unlike Beatrice, who just sat there watching television, living in a catatonic state of denial, Nicholas left and never turned back. Why else would he return to his mother, the woman who had abandoned him in the first place? Why would you go back to a life that was miserable unless you couldn’t deal with your new one?”

  “Well, this is all very interesting, but it’s speculative.”

  “Do you want to hear my other theory?”

  “Of course.”

  “I know Bill persuaded some of the older Scouts into molesting the younger ones. Jonathan admitted that when we were fourteen. My alternate hypothesis is, what if Nicholas became Bill’s accomplice once he’d been fully groomed? Months go by, and then it dawns on him that what he’s doing is wrong, and he runs away. Nicholas can’t go to the police because he feels guilty. That’s the brilliance of Bill’s seduction and deception. That would explain why no other boy has come forward after all these years. It all comes down to guilt and humiliation.”

  Dr. McGovern stared out the window. Normally, she maintained eye contact even when I couldn’t. That day, she seemed to contemplate my theories with a decisive intensity I had never seen before. “These theories are interesting, but I’m still stuck on this desire you have to hear Nicholas’s voice in order to make him real. Do you have any thoughts on that piece in particular?”

  “I want to talk to
the boy who replaced me. How’s that for honesty? Bill didn’t adopt me. Maybe I want to speak to the boy whom Bill chose to keep after he left Troop 85. See what’s so special about him. I’m hoping he’ll answer the phone and sound like some redneck. Then I can hang up and think, ‘I’m better than that.’ ”

  Dr. McGovern laughed. “Under the circumstances, I think your feelings are understandable. Bill pitted Chris Spivey against you and then you against Jonathan. It would make sense that you feel jealous of Nicholas. However, I’m still unclear as to your motive for wanting to call him. I think in the beginning your motives were strong. You wanted to find this boy and confront him. Now things have changed for you. You seem less confrontational.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Maybe my relationship with Chad has changed me, made me softer. Perhaps if I was still single and bitter, I would have called him by now or gotten on a plane to Topeka. Last night, I read the New York Times article again. I can’t imagine the pain that boy must have felt climbing out on that ledge. When the best solution you can come up with is death . . . The crowd below screaming, ‘Jump, jump,’ and then a sweet Irish police officer promises you the world. I don’t know for sure why he left Bill. I do know that he’s living in Kansas with his family. Maybe he has a little boy and takes him to baseball practice. I don’t want to be the person who calls to tell him his adoptive father was a monster. If I do that, then I’m just as bad as Bill.”

  “Because you would be abusing him?” she offered delicately.

  “Yes. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  Dr. McGovern didn’t say anything after that. We sat there silently as I sobbed. It was the longest time we’d spent in any session where neither of us said a word.

  THAT WEEK I APPROACHED A POLICE OFFICER named Gary Ferg at the gym. He was dating a friend of mine and had the biggest biceps I’d ever seen. He was on his way out when I stopped him.

  “Hey, Gary, do you have a minute? I need to ask your advice.”

  “Sure.”

  We walked to the lounge, where I recited a TV Guide synopsis of my story. Gary sat there quietly, shaking his head. I told him that I wanted to lodge an official complaint with the police. He offered to come by my office later in the week to take my statement himself.

  “You know, most people think that cops protect one another, but when it comes to shit like this . . . molesting children,” he said, still shaking his head. “I’d be glad to help. Once I get your statement, I’ll pass it along to the Special Victims Unit. I guarantee you’ll be hearing from them.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Hunting Rabbits

  DETECTIVE ANDREW COLLIER and his partner, Jeff Willey, from the Staten Island Special Victims Unit, arrived at my office after-hours to go over the statement I gave to Gary Ferg. Collier was wearing jeans and an unbuttoned plaid shirt over a white T-shirt. He had a receding hairline, a round face with a five o’clock shadow, and broad shoulders. His partner was older and wearing weathered jeans, construction boots, and a dungaree jacket. Together, they looked like they’d just come from a roadside bar off the turnpike.

  “Sit down, detectives,” I said, offering them each a seat in the waiting room.

  Collier pulled out a crumpled document and a pad. “We just have a few questions,” he began. “Bill Fox was your Scoutmaster, correct? And all the instances of molestation occurred on Staten Island?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you called him, did you confront him about the molestation?”

  “No, it was strictly an informal call.”

  “I see,” he said as he jotted notes on his pad. Then, looking me squarely in the eyes, he said, “Listen, doc, I think we should arrange to wiretap a conversation between you and Bill. I know you’re well aware of the statute of limitations regarding your case, but if we can get Bill to admit that he molested you, then I could take these tapes to the Pennsylvania State Police. They’d have to investigate based on this information.” Imitating Elmer Fudd, Collier asked, “What do you say, doc? Are you up to hunting rabbits?”

  “I say let’s do it.”

  THE EVENING OF OCTOBER 15, Detective Collier set up the wiretap on my cell phone. In the meantime, I met with Gloria privately. She refused to leave the office while I made the call, so I gave her strict instructions to turn off her phone and not to disturb us for any reason.

  I closed the door to the hall and entered my office. Collier was sitting across from my desk, ready to go. I took the seat opposite him. He inserted a microphone into my right ear. We were sitting so close to each other our knees were practically touching.

  “Are you nervous?” he asked.

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “I’ll be here the whole time. Are you ready?”

  I felt a lump in my throat, a fear so obstructing that I couldn’t even swallow my own saliva. Then I heard Bill’s phone ringing in my earpiece. Suddenly, a man answered.

  I swallowed hard. “Hi, can I speak to Bill Fox, please?”

  “Speaking,” he answered in a droll, disinterested way, as if he was responding to a market researcher.

  “Bill, this is Frank Spinelli. I called you several months ago. Do you remember?”

  There was a pause. “The kid from Boy Scouts?” His voice lightened up. “Yeah, I remember. Sorry I never made it up to New York for that cup of coffee.”

  “That’s okay. I was just thinking about you, and so I thought I’d give you a call. How are you doing?”

  “Not so good. I just had a total knee replacement.”

  “Wow, a total knee,” I said. Distracted, for a fleeting moment I felt sympathy. Collier made a winding motion with his hand. “That’s some operation,” I continued.

  “Yeah, it’s from an old injury I got on the force.”

  “Was that the one where you got dragged by the car with your arm trapped in the window?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, that’s the one. You sure got some memory.”

  “I remember when you had that accident. They announced it at Boy Scouts. You were in the hospital for a long time. We thought you were gonna die.”

  “That was a bad accident. My knee has been fucked up ever since. They’ve been pushing me to get it replaced, but I kept putting it off. I was in the hospital all last week, and now I’ll be home for a month doing physical therapy.”

  I glanced over at Collier. He was staring at the recording device and listening with his hand pressed up to his earpiece. He looked up at me and made the winding motion again. Startled, I resumed talking. “Bill, the reason why I called this time is because I need to talk to you about something.”

  “What about?”

  Collier offered me an encouraging nod.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled. “I need to talk to you about what went on when I was a Boy Scout. I’ve been living with something for many years, and I’ve been through a lot of therapy. It all comes down to something that involves you.”

  Bill didn’t respond.

  I looked up at Collier. He mouthed, “Say it.”

  “Do you have any idea what I’m referring to?” I asked.

  Bill’s tone instantly changed to annoyed. “No, not really.”

  “When I was eleven years old, you used to pick me up in your truck. You had a red truck, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “One time you drove me up to camp because they left me behind. During that drive you talked to me about sex. You asked me if I masturbated. Does this sound familiar?”

  Bill cleared his throat several times. “I can’t say that it does.”

  “I used to run errands with you after school. One time, we changed the light bulbs in your house. Then we had sex in your bedroom.”

  There was a long pause. I heard Bill breathing into the phone. Finally, he said, “I really can’t say I remember any of this.”

  Collier wrote a prompt down on his pad and showed it to me.

  I repeated it back to Bill. “Maybe you’ve blocked it out of your
mind?” I said. “It would really help me if I could talk to you about this.”

  “Go ahead,” he urged. His voice was low, simmering like a kettle on the stove. I detected an ominous twinge, as though he was baiting me. In my mind I heard him say, Go ahead. Try your best. You’ll never catch me. Even with Collier there, I felt frightened. Confronted with the most horrendous accusation, Bill suddenly sounded poised, and that filled me with apprehension. I began to perspire.

  Certainly he could have just hung up. That’s what an innocent person would have done, right after he enjoyed a hearty laugh at the sheer absurdity of this accusation. When Bill didn’t hang up, it occurred to me that he was intrigued, even aroused, and more than anything, that made me ill.

  “Bill, I don’t want to make trouble. In fact, I want to tell you that I am not angry. It’s just that I have been dealing with this for many years, and I’ve tried to put this behind me. In your book, you describe how you struggled for a higher purpose. I know you are very religious. I want you to use this opportunity to tell me if you remember anything so that we can talk about it and then move on.”

  Collier offered me an aggressive thumbs-up.

  “Honestly, I don’t know what to tell you,” said Bill.

  I began asking him the sort of leading questions I was taught to avoid in medical school. “Do you remember having sex with me in your bedroom? The first time you showed me pornographic magazines, and then you showed me how to masturbate you.”

  “No, I can’t say I remember that.”

  “Another time I slept over your house, you made me give you a blow job? You had a Farrah Fawcett poster over your bed.”

  “Who?”

  “Farrah Fawcett, from Charlie’s Angels.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “We had sex, and then I slept over. You sleep wearing just a T-shirt and underwear.”

  “Well, I do sleep like that,” he admitted.

  “I imagine you would remember sleeping with a little boy, too. It’s not something you’d forget. We walked around in our underwear in front of your mother while she watched game shows. I remember she sat in a reclining chair in the living room. Did you let other boys sleep over?”