What am I going to tell Suzanne? How? I know what Chris must have been going through twenty-four hours ago.
Today my wife has been doing whatever it is she does on her days off. I am not usually around to interfere. Benjamin has no doubt been trying on his Power Rangers costume, hoping and praying that his mommy and daddy are going to let him go trick-or-treating tonight. Peter is about to go to his afternoon study hall, to frantically try and finish all of his homework so he can have his friends over tonight. All normal things that members of a normal family on a normal day would do.
I am, of course, the exception. Normal husbands and fathers don’t come home early from work and say, “Hey, I got accused of sexually molesting a thirteen-year-old boy today. What’d you all do?”
How is this going to affect my family? And what if it goes further than the accusation? Arrest? Trial? My life will never be the same for sure. But neither will my family’s.
My first inclination is to tell Suzanne everything. Even what Chris did to Tommy. But I know I could never swear her to secrecy. She would tell in an effort to clear her husband. So do I just tell her it’s a giant mistake? That for some unknown reason Tommy Jackson is saying that I did things to him that I did not do. How will she react? How would any woman react when told that her husband has been accused of such things?
Accused. I must remember that I have only been accused. I have not been arrested and charged, only accused. Lucille Drake could call at any moment and say, “I’m sorry about all this Glen, Tommy has told us what really happened.”
As long as I have that hope, I will not tell Suzanne of this.
God, let that be the right decision.
When I walk into the kitchen, I notice a note left by our housekeeper:
I found a few dirty clothes in the floor of the boys’ guestroom after I had done the laundry. I guess they belong to one of Peter’s friends. I put them in the boys’ hamper upstairs. If you want, I can wash them Friday. See you.
I crumple up the note and throw it in the trash. The clothes are Tommy’s. I need to go up and get his things together and take them back to New Horizons. As I start up the back stairs, the phone rings.
Is it Lucille Drake?
I back step into the kitchen and answer.
“Hello?”
“Glen?”
I don’t recognized the voice. “Yes,” I say.
“This is Vernon Peck.”
“Yes, Vern?”
“I just tried to reach Lucille Drake. She’s not in, but I thought you would want to hear about this right away. I just finished my report on Tommy Jackson.”
Why is Vernon calling me about this?
Vernon Peck, M.D. is the on-call pediatrician for Children and Youth Services. He does all the routine physicals and medical work for the residents of New Horizons as well. He does all the medical examinations of DSS intakes. And in the case of alleged physical or sexual abuse, he does the examinations in order to establish corroborating evidence.
“Glen?”
“I’m here, Vern.”
“I’m calling about Tommy Jackson. From the physical evidence, I’d say the boy’s allegation of abuse is credible.”
Physical evidence? What kind of physical evidence?
Why is Vern telling me this? Unless Lucille didn’t tell him who the alleged abuser was. That’s it. She just took Tommy in to be examined for signs of abuse. She probably didn’t even talk with Vern. And evidently Tommy didn’t tell him either.
“Glen?”
“Yeah, Vern, I’m sorry. I’ve had a rough day. You said you found evidence. Evidence of what?”
“Penetration. There was a little bleeding.” Vern says.
Penetration? What the hell? Chris said only—
“Vern, Did Tommy say he had been sodomized??”
“Nah, he didn’t say much. I check for everything, you know that. But I always take a look at the underwear first for spotting.”
“And you found some?”
“Yep.”
“Did you tag his shorts?”
“Yep. They’re in an evidence bag right here on my desk. I’m lookin’ at ’em now.”
“Any semen, Vern?”
“Just his.”
“His?”
“The boy’s. His drawers are stained in the front.”
“You didn’t find semen in his rectum?”
“Nope.”
“Anything else?” I ask.
“I took a rectal smear to check for STD’s. Throat culture, too. Like I said, I check for everything.”
“Vern, are you sure Tommy’s condition was caused by anal intercourse? Could it have been an impacted stool? Or maybe just digital insertion?”
“No way. We’re not talking about somebody sticking their finger up this kid’s butt, Glen. The anus was lose, and there was blood in his drawers. I’d say Tommy got banged pretty good.”
Chris, you lying son of a bitch.
I’m feeling sick again. I swallow. I’m too stunned to say anything.
“Who did this, Glen? One of the older boys?”
Before I can answer, I hear Vern’s phone beep.
“My other line’s ringing, Glen,” Vern says. “I gotta go. If you see Lucille, tell her I’ll fax the report over later.”
“No, wait, Vern—”
Click.
I stand in front of the refrigerator staring at the phone in my hand. I can’t believe this. Chris admitted to masturbation with Tommy. But evidently he let things go further. Much further. What happened in that bedroom last Friday night is starting to take shape in my own mind now. Chris only gave me a glimpse of it.
I hang up the phone. I know I can verify Vern’s findings on my own. Tommy’s dirty clothes from Sunday night are upstairs, in my sons’ laundry hamper. I go up the stairs and into the boys’ dressing room, which joins their bedrooms. I open the hamper.
A pair of jeans. I pull them out. The New Horizons iron-in label says, T Jackson. I pull out the orange Clemson sweat shirt. Same label. I pick up the white briefs and examine them. Fruit of the Loom, Size 14, with T Jackson written inside the waistband with a laundry marker. There is a slight stain in the seat, but it’s not blood.
I take the dirty clothes into the guestroom. I open the closet and take out Tommy’s gym bag. I know he showered before church Sunday morning, so his dirty clothes from Saturday should be in here. I rummage around and pull out a pair of underwear. They are folded and clean. I hunt some more. And there they are, crumpled up and stuffed down in the corner of the bag: The briefs that Tommy wore Saturday, the day after Chris apparently sodomized him. I take them from the bag. There is the unmistakable odor of dried semen. I straighten the briefs out and hold them up. The front is stained yellow, but there is no stain in the seat at all. Strange.
I sit on the edge of the bed with Tommy’s dirty shorts in my hand.
Why is he saying I did this? Why?
I sigh and reach down to pick up all the dirty clothes. I stuff them in the gym bag. I go in the bathroom and collect up Tommy’s toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant. There is a comb on the sink. I don’t know if it’s his, but it goes in the bag with the rest of his stuff. I zip the bag shut and look up to see my reflection in the mirror.
What am I feeling? Regret? About what? How I handled things? Chris? Or is it more?
I blink.
Do I feel guilty because I have something to feel guilty about?
“Watch my knee,” I tell Benjamin. He has donned his Power Rangers costume and we are playing in the back yard. Playing, for a yellow-clad Power Ranger, is karate kicks. I don’t know how much Benjamin has been practicing, but he almost looks as if he knows something of the martial arts.
He is quick. Before I can turn, he’s behind me. “Ha-yi!” I get a swift kick in the rear.
“Glen!” Suzanne is calling from the patio. The cordless phone is in her hand. She waves for me to come.
“Who is it?” I ask as I walk up the patio steps.
“I don’t know. She didn’t say. Are you having an affair?”
I frown at my wife and take the phone. “Hello?”
“Glen, it’s Beth Carbon.” She is speaking softly, as if she doesn’t want anyone to hear her.
“Yes, Beth?”
“I need to see you. I can’t talk on the phone. Not here.”
“Are you at DSS?”
“Yes. Can we meet?”
“Where?”
“Parker’s Diner. You know where that is?”
Of course I do. I was sick to my stomach in their men’s room a few hours ago.
“Yes, I know where it is. Give me about thirty minutes.”
“Okay, see you then.”
Click.
I hand the phone to Suzanne. Why does Beth want to see me? Something’s up.
“Glen?” My wife is looking at me. There is worry on her face.
“That was Beth Carbon, honey. She wants to see me.”
“I know who it was, Glen. Is there a problem with one of the boys?”
“Yes. She’s Tommy Jackson’s case worker.”
“Is this about Sunday night?”
“What? Oh...yeah, she knows about that. But I’m not sure why she wants to see me now. She was very...secretive. I’m supposed to meet her in thirty minutes.”
“Well, I’ve got to go pick up Peter and his crew. You did say he could invite his friends over tonight, right?”
“Yes, I told him he could if he finished his homework at school. Make sure he did.”
“I will.” She turns to our junior Power Ranger. “Benjamin! Come on. We’ve got to go get your brother from school.”
Benjamin comes kicking his way up onto the patio. And again I am kicked in the rear.
Suzanne gives me a look. She knows I am keeping something from her. I have never betrayed my wife’s trust before, and it kills me to think that I may be on the verge of doing it now. But if this whole mess is about to disappear—Is that what Beth wants to tell me?—then Suzanne need never know of the accusation.
I smile at her.
“Something is wrong, Glen,” she says. “I don’t know what it is. But I know something is wrong.” She takes Benjamin by the hand and leaves me standing on the patio.
When I get to the diner in North Charleston where Jim and I had been earlier, Beth Carbon is already there. I join her in the booth where she is seated.
“Hi, Glen, thanks for coming.”
I sit. “I was a little surprised that you called, Beth. You really shouldn’t be meeting with me like this. You’re on the Team, aren’t you?”
“So you figured out how far this has gone?”
“Well—”
The waitress is at our table. “Coffee?” she says.
Beth and I both order coffee. I continue.
“It was pretty obvious how far this had gone back at the interview this morning. But, again, you really shouldn’t be talking with me about this.”
“I know, Glen, but I’ve had a funny feeling about this since Karen Stillman called me at half past five this morning. I think Tommy is lying. I don’t believe you did anything to him.”
“What about Lucille? Does she share your doubts?”
“She did—”
The waitress is back. She sets our coffee on the table and looks at me. “You feeling better?” she asks.
Evidently, she remembers me from earlier today. I smile. “Yes, thank you.” She returns my smile and walks away.
I look at Beth. “What about Lucille?”
“She was suspicious of Tommy’s story, too. Until you gave your statement this morning. Now she’s not so sure.”
“I know. I really blew that interview. Hell, I came out of there feeling like I was guilty. Why do you still think I’m innocent?”
“I know you. I know you wouldn’t do something like that to any of your boys. You’re a good man, Glen.” She reaches over and puts her hand on mine.
“How much can you tell me, Beth? I don’t want you to get in any trouble, but—”
She keeps her hand on mine. Her touch is soft. I look down at her fingers. The fingernail polish is deep red. Suzanne never wears polish.
“Glen, I want to be as much help to you as I can.” She squeezes my hand.
Six years. That is how long I have known Elizabeth Carbon. She is only twenty-nine. Do I find her attractive? Absolutely. She still has that spunky cuteness, that wholesome beauty of a teenager in her prime. Not the elegance of my wife. But attractive nonetheless. Beth actually reminds me of a twelve-year-old girl I had an enormous crush on when I was only nine and in the third grade. I move my hand from under hers. I’ve got enough problems without being tempted to add others to the list. I clear my throat. “What is it about Tommy’s story that makes you doubt it?” I ask.
“How it evolved from when I got to New Horizons until he actually made the taped statement at DSS.”
“You mean he changed his story?”
“No, he didn’t change anything. He just kept adding things. And it all fits. It’s all credible. It just didn’t set right with me.”
“I take it Tommy got up this morning and told Karen Stillman that I had molested him last night in his room.”
“No, not exactly.”
I frown and Beth proceeds to tell me the events that have brought me to the verge of arrest for child molestation.
I did not think it was possible for me to feel shock anymore over this. I was wrong. As Beth finishes her recitation, I am numb. Tommy’s litany of sex acts which he says the two of us have engaged in over the past forty-eight hours is astonishing. No wonder Lucille, the solicitor, even John Brantley, think I’m guilty. Of course, Beth and I know that everything Tommy is saying I did to him has been done to him, just not by me. That his story would sound credible is not so surprising, since he can provide the sort of detail only a genuine abuse victim can.
But it is disturbing to me for another reason. As outrageous as it all sounds, from an objective standpoint, I could have actually done all these things to Tommy. I could have sodomized him in my home Sunday night. I could have molested him in the school restroom. I could have molested him in his bedroom last night.
I could have.
Suzanne, Benjamin, and I are sitting at the dinner table. Suzanne prepared one of my favorite meals: fried smoked pork chops, sweet peas, and creamed potatoes. I didn’t feel much like eating, but I have managed to get down one helping of each.
It is a few minutes past six. Peter and four of his friends are eating pizza out on the patio. Suzanne said it was too cold to eat out, but Peter prevailed. I wonder how she is going to react when Peter tells her of his planned pool party tonight?
I hear the incessant tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick, of the coo-coo clock hanging on the dining room wall. I look up and watch the pendulum marking time in the still air. A countdown to disaster.
I am awaiting the inevitable knock at the door. But now that it is past six I’m beginning to think that I will not be arrested until tomorrow.
Or maybe never?
I look from the clock to Suzanne. She is staring at me.
“I have to tell you something,” I say. I look at my plate and move the fork around in what is left of my creamed potatoes. I look back at her. I can see the worry softening slightly in her face. She is relieved that I am finally going to share this with her.
“What is it, Glen?”
“Tommy Jackson has been sexually molested.”
“What’s ‘sexually molested,’ Daddy?” Benjamin says.
“Glen, I think we should talk about this later,” my wife says.
I nod. I didn’t even think about Benjamin sitting here listening.
“What is it, Mommy?” Benjamin persists.
We both know it does no good to ignore a child’s questions about such things. No matter how uncomfortable the questions may make the parent, the child deserves an answer. Suzanne gives me a look that says, Why did you bring this up in
front of him? She turns to Benjamin. “Do you remember how Mommy and Daddy have told you about good touching and bad touching?”
Benjamin nods and stuffs a spoon full of creamed potatoes in his mouth.
“Bad touching is when someone touches your private parts, your penis. Right?” Suzanne says.
Benjamin nods again.
“And what else?” Suzanne asks.
“When someone tries to make me touch their private parts,” he mumbles with a mouth full of potatoes.
“That’s right,” I tell him. “That’s what molestation is. Bad touching.”
“What about my bottom?”
“What, honey?” Suzanne says.
“Where I do number two. Is that bad touching?”
Suzanne looks at me. My anxiety level is rising. I look at my son. “Benjamin, has someone touched your bottom?” I ask him.
He picks up a pea and pops it in his mouth. He nods.
I look over at Suzanne. “Who, son?”
“Tommy.”
“When did this happen, Benjamin?” I ask.
“When you brought Tommy home.”
“Okay, honey, but when, exactly? Was it Saturday? Or Sunday?”
“I don’t remember. We were playing out back.”
“Tell us what he did, son,” I say.
“He asked me if I wanted to play a new game and then he pulled my pants down and poked my bottom with his finger.”
“Where were you?” I ask.
“Behind the pool house,” Benjamin says, looking from me to his mother.
“Did he hurt you, honey?” Suzanne asks.
Benjamin shakes his head. “No. But I told him I didn’t like it and I didn’t want to play anymore.”
“Did he do anything else?”
“He made me smell his finger. It stunk,” Benjamin says with a giggle. “It had poop on it,” he adds with scatological glee.
“Nothing else happened?” I ask. “Did Tommy do anything with your penis? Or make you do anything with his?”
“No. He showed me his. He said mine looked funny” Benjamin leans over to me and whispers, “His looks like yours, Daddy...no skin on the end.”
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