Years later Clair commented, “Yeah, like a trained parrot.”
Clair had an older brother who had quite the reputation with the ladies, some younger than Clair. Edward was spawned by Satan himself, but to say he was evil, would have been a compliment; he was beyond evil.
Edward was fourteen and remained out in the world, 'feeling his oats' as some would say. Her idiot parents weren't aware of his 'goings on,' but heard rumors. At eight years old, Clair would be his next victim. She became part of the nourishment from his wicked feed trough and a target of his sick love interests.
Clair was on her way home from school one day, and a pack of older grade school girls approached her.
Their leader, Lucy, moved in close, and with a snarled lip asked, “How's your brother the lover?”
“Huh?”
Clair didn't understand the meaning or what it suggested.
“I have to go now.”
She skipped down the sidewalk, then turned, smiled and waved.
“Bye-bye, Lucy.”
On the way home, she hummed the Happy Birthday song. It wasn't her birthday, but she loved the tune. Her little dress floated, and her blond, pig-tailed hair swung back and forth with each skip.
Halfway to her destination, Clair stopped for a moment, confused and wondered, “Why is he my brother the lover? Oh well,” then skipped the rest of the way home.
At the time Lucy made the comment, Edward had not touched Clair, only the others. Though she didn't understand its meaning, her time was running short and was close to finding out.
As Clair got older, she continued to live with confusion, but in her world, everything seemed normal and had no way of gauging the difference. As a young teen, and a consequence of that confusion, the relationship with her father, what little they had, drifted further apart, and again, she never knew why.
“Does he love me? Does he care?”
If he did, it didn't show.
Clair would see a father holding his little girl's hand, witnessed their happiness and said to herself, “I wish he was my daddy.”
Mr. Reynolds traveled for his company, sometimes weeks at a time, and never attended a single tennis tournament or school play. After a while, whatever disappointment she felt, over time, disappointment had no meaning. They were more like strangers, and it was most evident after the abuse from Edward. It was as if he knew but never said a thing. The thought he might have known and did nothing hurt her. Some of those memories she could recall, but most remained tucked away in a fog, and any love lost between them was now resentment.
* * *
At seventeen, soon after graduating high school, Clair moved out and got her own apartment miles across town away from her family. Edward still lived at home and was useless. The scorn toward her brother was an understatement and hated they breathed the same air.
Clair was not wealthy by any means but took care of herself with the help of a small trust fund her grandmother left her and two cousins. She also had a part-time job and sold a few pieces of her art for a few bucks, mostly to friends and relatives.
* * *
It was a chilly, fall day, complimented with an occasional thunderstorm with flashes of lightning filtering through the windows. It was perfect weather to work on one of her paintings. Clair had been pondering what direction her current project was heading and studied it for hours. Interrupting her thoughts, the phone rang and took the call.
Hearing it was her brother, she asked in a deliberate and sarcastic tone.
“Yes, Edward, what do you want?”
He announced that their dad was dead, and said, “Dad is dead,” then hung up.
She laid the phone down, dropped in her chair, and allowed those three words to wash over her. Clair's emotions seemed limited to only three: mad, sad and angry. She was hard-pressed to figure out which one and hadn't a clue how to react.
The first thing to pop into her head was, “Wow.”
There was only one hospital in the area and figured that was where they would have taken him. When Clair arrived, she asked the volunteer at the information desk where Mr. Curtis Reynolds could be found.
She punched a few keystrokes on the computer and pointed.
“He is all the way down the hall in emergency. When you get there, I'll buzz you in.”
As Clair walked away, all the volunteer could say was, “I'm very sorry, ma'am.”
Clair stopped, turned and looked at her. There wasn't much to say except to tell her thanks.
“What can you say at a time like this?”
And tucked way down deep inside, her next thought was eerily reminiscent of her childhood.
“Who knows, who cares.”
She got to the entrance, heard the door unlock, then slammed open the swinging double doors like she owned the place. Within a few steps, she heard voices coming from the first room on the right. It was a grieving room, and Clair found her mother and brother embracing each other. Clair walked passed them and went to the E.R. intake desk instead and asked what happened. It was reported he was killed in a hunting accident.
The intake clerk knew a little about the family, and her thoughts were, “With this crowd, he most likely jumped in front of the bullet.”
An unsmiling nurse approached Clair.
“May I help you?”
Clair wanted to see her father, but the snotty bitch with a shitty attitude suggested, “Not now,” saying it was still “quite a mess.”
“Why not? Why can't I see him?”
Put out, Nurse Bitch let out a disgusted sigh.
“We'll get him cleaned up as best we can, then you can see him if you'd like.”
She continued in an exasperated tone.
“But if I were you, I'd wait until the mortician straightens things out, and puts him back together. His head has more pieces than a jigsaw puzzle.”
Under normal circumstances, most would be offended at such callousness, but not Clair.
“I understand. I'll just wait and see him at the funeral home.”
She walked out, turned back and asked in a raised voice, “Nurse?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Have you ever heard of Dale Carnegie?”
“No, I don't believe I have.”
Clair said loud enough for all to hear, “No shit!”
* * *
The day of the funeral, the weather was still crap. It was perfect to draw and paint, but inappropriate to bury the dead —then again, maybe not. Instead of a funeral chapel with a private family room, they held it at a regular church with all the trappings; big cross, big statues, big stained-glass windows and rows and rows of pews. Family and close friends were paraded to the front ones, and Clair was the last arrival. The smell of death filled the air, and the scent of the lilies and carnations crowded her nostrils. The blend of the flowers seemed exclusive only to a funeral, leaving no doubt this was the right place. As she made her way to the assigned seating, she looked around.
“Good crowd,” were her thoughts, then took a seat.
Another one popped into her head, “One down, two more to go.”
Clair sat on the right side near an exit door, and her mother and brother sat opposite, separated by a few others. As the service was getting under way, Clair shed a few crocodile tears for her mother's sake, and by God, she leaned forward and checked. Clair also threw in two dramatic sobs to be on the safe side, then drew a sketch of the casket on the blank, back side of the program.
To be fair, Clair was shocked when she heard the news and a little sad, but most of her feelings remained stuck in neutral. She didn't pay too much attention to her father, but her eyes stayed fixed on the casket.
“That thing must have cost a fortune.”
At the end of the service, she got up, marched to the front of the church and stood by her father as a show of respect, because that was what you were supposed to do. She noticed how good he looked, aside from the patch on his forehead hiding the bullet hole.
“Those gho
uls did a great job,” went through her mind.
Then whispered, “Let's see how good.”
She was tempted to roll him over to see where it exited, but decided it might be rude.
Clair stood there a few seconds, gave him a single pat on the chest and said, “Bye, Dad. Have fun.”
After saying her final farewell, she turned and walked toward her mother. She ignored Edward then stopped and said flatly, “I'm sorry for your loss.”
A moment later, she retreated toward an exit.
Her mother spun around in the pew and shouted, “He was your father for Christ's sake!”
Everyone in the chapel sat in shock, but Clair kept walking and waved from behind.
“Whatever.”
A few weeks after the funeral, her mother was having “one of those days,” thinking of her late husband. She was sitting in the breakfast area, both elbows on the table, wine glass in one hand, a burning cigarette in the other. Clair stopped by to get a stored painters smock from her old room. Her mother looked at her as if in a hypnotic trance. A trail of dried tears lined her face, muddied by dark makeup.
She extinguished her cigarette and gulped the last of the wine.
“I wish it had been you instead of your father.”
“Excuse me?”
Her mother tilted the wine glass up as high as she could to get the last drop.
“Just get what you came for and leave me alone.”
Clair had nothing else to say. As requested, she gathered her things and left.
It's hard to imagine comments like that coming from a mother, but aware she was upset and blew it off. Those around them knew there wasn't any love lost between the two. Her mother later apologized despite the lack of affection. Clair accepted it with about the same amount of emotion. Though their differences separated them, the “wish it were you” comment lingered in her head, and it stung for a long time.
Chapter III
If you gathered everyone into a room and took a vote, they'd agree Clair was an attractive woman. Most would argue she was beautiful… except her. She had dark, shoulder-length hair and kept her bangs perfectly trimmed just above her eyebrows. Below her brows were deep blue eyes and a modest, athletic small frame that stood at five-feet, six inches tall. To enhance her knock-out appearance, she was also a brilliant artist. All those things Clair was on the outside, she'd look at herself in the mirror and saw sadness and nothing else. Clair longed for a prince to come save her with answers and relief. The vision hung there in silence. She gazed at the reflected image and hoped for a Snow White moment and begged that it might speak magic words. She waited, but neither one ever came; no answers or relief… and no prince. What it showed in glaring detail was the face of an abused, ashamed and broken woman. Though Clair wanted it so desperately, she was convinced there would be no 'happily ever after' for her, at least not that day… or perhaps ever.
Hunter was unmistakably handsome, but with a name like that, you must be. His features were that of a Greek god: thick blond hair, piercing green eyes, and tanned from stem to stern. With all those features going for him, instead, he had the ambition of a slow-moving snail… moving backward. Hunter barely made it out of high school, then enrolled at the local community college. He was the same age as Clair but still lived with his parents. He came home from school and announced that he wasn't cut out for college. His father was the first to speak and voiced his concerns.
“Why did you drop out?”
Hunter stood in the kitchen, munching on some leftover nachos.
“Dad, college isn't for me.”
In a rare moment of fatherly advice, he said, “You should at least try it.”
“I did, and I don't like it.”
Now was the opportunity to be less fatherly.
“Hunter, for crying out loud, you were taking one damn class!”
“I don't want to go back, Dad! I'm not college material.”
Hunter had been in and out of a few rehab centers and gone through about a dozen private counselors. He served as a constant source of embarrassment to his family, especially his father. Dropping out of college gave him another reason to ridicule his son. On one hand, he tried as best he could to be a supportive parent, but on the other, seemed to get sick pleasure out of humiliating him.
“It was your first day, idiot! Why is it so difficult for you to commit to anything?”
Then he referred to a recent rehab stay.
“Didn't they teach you anything at that loon camp?”
His father yelled each letter and every word. Charming.
“You're right, Dad, maybe I will go back and become a doctor.”
“You, a doctor?” Then he laughed at him.
“Hunter, you couldn't put a bandage on a scratch.”
Though these sorts of conversations were commonplace, even as a child, and as far back as he could remember, Hunter always felt “less than.” His father was no cheerleader and cared more about his own success and no one else's, not even his sons.
Dr. Worcestershire was a surgeon who may have been a whiz in the operating room, but not destined to be awarded father of the year. Hunter's mother was as cruel; just less apparent. She was a busy body socialite and only showed an interest in her clubs and committees. Her greatest joy was in front of a camera or reading a write-up about her in a magazine or newspaper article. Hunters status in the family was that of a lampshade; just another fixture in a big house and not much more.
To those on the outside looking in, both the Reynolds and the Worcestershire family seemed to have content and normal lives, but content and normal was just a camouflage.
* * *
Like Clair, Hunter was also a refugee of sexual abuse. It started when he was five years old. His parents watched over a sixteen-year-old boy who shared a room with him. The memories were so vague that he can't remember his name, or how long he stayed. But whoever it was, Hunter called him Chuck. Years later, he asked his mother who he was, and she didn't have a clue. Hunter thought he was crazy, but remembered what he did to him down to the last detail.
A counselor verified the memory of the event, and said, “Five-year-old kids can't make that shit up.”
After Hunter's third time in treatment, he discovered who the abuser was. He did the math, connected the dots, and his parents confirmed it. They knew nothing about a boy named Chuck, but told him an older cousin stayed with them for a few weeks.
“But why the name change?” he asked.
The therapist told him it was a self-defense mechanism. He made up Chuck to disassociate himself from someone he thought was trustworthy and created another to blame —hence, the birth of Chuck. Mystery solved.
Hunter's abuse did not end with “Chuck.” At eight years old while on vacation to visit relatives, again the abuse was from older cousins —all brothers in their teens, and lived under the same roof. His folks were always excited to go; after the first trip, Hunter dreaded it.
When they arrived the next year, and after the twelve-hour drive, he stayed at his parent's side as long as he could, which was unprecedented. Even at a young age, he already developed hatred toward his parents, but felt safe when they were around. The sleeping arrangements gave in to the abuse. His parents stayed a few houses down at a friend's place and left Hunter alone with his aunt and cousins. The house was a large two-story home with a game room and three bedrooms on the top floor, a master on the first… with lots of space in between. Hunter was all alone and afraid. Thankfully this was the last evening of the trip.
As usual, right after dinner, his parents prepared for the walk a few houses down to call it an evening. Right as they were about to leave, Hunter ran to his mother and wrapped his arms around her as tight as he could and begged to go with them.
“Now, Hunter, today is our last day here for vacation. You stay here with your cousins so you boys can play together.”
He cried uncontrollably, and his mother forced her way out of his grip.
�
��Hunter, what is wrong with you?”
He staggered backward, with a lowered head and arms straight down at his side.
The elder cousin said, “Yeah, Hunter stay here. We'll play games and have a lot of fun!”
“You see, Hunter? They want you to stay and play. Now you scoot.”
After his parents left, Hunter was more frightened than ever and had nowhere to hide, but even if he could— they'd find him, but tonight seemed to start out differently. The four of them watched a movie and Hunter thought maybe they would leave him alone and go to bed afterward. The other boys went to their rooms, and Hunter tried to sleep on the upstairs sofa in the game room. He was sound asleep with the covers pulled over his head, perhaps thinking if he can't see them, they can't see him. Later that night, it started all over again, and it did not differ from before. He pleaded with them to leave him alone.
“Oh, come on, Hunter. It's just good, clean fun.”
Hunter's opinion differed. As the hours passed, they handed him around like a little whore from room to room, cousin to cousin. His parents were unaware of what they did to him; he kept it inside and never said a word.
On the way home, everyone was quiet except for some jazz background music playing on the radio.
His mother lowered the volume and asked Hunter, “Wasn't that a nice vacation?”
He stared out the window and said nothing.
“Hunter, your mother asked you a question.”
Stoned faced and pale, he said, “I just want to go home.”
This went on for three straight summers, and this trip was the last time he ever saw his cousins again.
As a young teen, the sexual abuse stopped, but drugs and alcohol picked up where it left off.
As he got older, those memories haunted him for several years, but he got over it — or so he thought.
Hunter had an older sister, Gail, who also had her fair share of torment; this time, it was their father, but Hunter never knew the specifics. She was four years old, Hunter was three. Most of what he recalled was that she wandered around the neighborhood all the time unattended by either parent. To put an end to it, at least for the short term, their father locked her in her room for several days. They took food to her, but didn't let her use the bathroom, instead, it was a small, plastic training toilet for little kids. In nineteen-sixty, it was rare that the authorities got involved with any child protection, but in this case, they did. A neighbor must have tipped them off. When the social worker arrived, she knocked on the door. There was no answer, and she let herself in.
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