I manage to keep from chuckling. Neither of our sons is circumcised. Peter was born in South Africa in 1983, the year I was on sabbatical from Penn and doing research at Stellenbosch. The peculiar American custom of non-religious routine infant circumcision is not practiced there—nor virtually anywhere else in the civilized world. In fact, when Benjamin was born here in South Carolina five years ago, the doctor almost became irate when Suzanne and I refused to sign the consent form for the procedure. We remained resolute, however, and Benjamin, like his brother, remained intact.
“Did anything else happen?” Suzanne asks. “I mean when Tommy wanted you to play that game?”
“No,” Benjamin says, “I pulled my pants back up and that’s when Daddy came out and we started throwing the ball.”
I try and compose myself. Obviously, our talks with Benjamin about this subject have been woefully inadequate. “Benjamin, son, why didn’t you come and tell us about this? Didn’t we tell you if anybody ever tries to touch you like that to come and tell us immediately?”
Benjamin shakes his head.
I look at Suzanne. She is as confused as I am. “We didn’t tell you that, Benjamin?” she says.
“Tommy didn’t try to touch my penis. And you didn’t say nothin’ about my bottom.”
I close my eyes and shake my head. I have two doctorates, a master’s, and a bachelor’s degree in psychology. My wife has a master’s degree in family counseling. How could we have made such a monumental blunder like this? With our own son?
“Alright, son,” I tell him, “I want you to listen to me. If anyone ever tries to touch your penis or your bottom or get you to touch theirs, you are to say NO. Do you understand? NO. And then you are to tell me or Mommy about it right away. Okay?”
“Anybody?” Benjamin eyes me suspiciously.
“Anybody,” Suzanne says firmly.
“But you touch me there,” he says to me.
I glance at Suzanne. “When have I ever touched you there?”
“In the bath tub.”
I am breathing again. “That’s different, honey. Mommy and I only touch you there in the bath to wash you. Just like we wash your ears and your toes. That’s not bad touching. Do you understand the difference?”
Benjamin picks up his glass of milk and takes a gulp. He looks at me with a white moustache. He blinks. “Yeah,” he says.
“Is there anything else we need to talk about, son?”
He nods and sets his glass of milk back on the table.
Now what?
I wait. Finally, Benjamin speaks. “Are y’all gonna let me go trick-or-treatin’?”
Chapter 7
Trick or Treat
Benjamin Erskine is one happy little boy as he walks out the front door holding his mother’s hand. Tonight he is a Power Ranger. Invincible. Out to stop all manner of evil.
And get some candy.
I wave to my wife and son as they walk down the drive. It is quite cool this evening so Suzanne is planning to take Benjamin only in the immediate neighborhood. Whatever it was that caused Benjamin’s fever, we don’t want it to return.
I close the door and look at the bowl of candy on the table in the foyer. We don’t usually get too many trick-or-treaters. Our house is not visible from the road and our lot is wooded. To youngsters, I guess the narrow lane leading into the woods looks a little too spooky on Halloween. Only the bravest venture in—usually just our friends and immediate neighbors with their kids.
I turn and walk down the hall to the den. It is amazing how in the midst of the nightmare I am living I have brief respites of normality. Such was just the case. Thinking about Benjamin going off to collect candy. The reason we don’t get many trick-or-treaters.
And then abnormal reality returns.
Tommy Jackson returns. I would give anything to be able to go back to Saturday morning when Chris Manning called. I would tell him to pack up Tommy’s things and take him back to New Horizons. He will not spend a single night in my home. Why didn’t I say that? I know why.
I was concerned for Tommy. That’s why I agreed to take him. Why I did not leave his bed Sunday night. Or last night. And look where my concern has gotten me. And my little boy. But I am not worried about Benjamin. Primarily because Benjamin is not worried about Benjamin. Tommy did what he did and when Benjamin realized he didn’t like it, that it wasn’t quite right, he told Tommy to stop. And thankfully Tommy stopped.
Children Benjamin’s age use their parents as interpretive grids. They react to things the way their parents do. If we act as if something is awful, then it is awful. If we act as if something is inappropriate, then it is inappropriate. If Suzanne and I had completely lost it when Benjamin told us what Tommy had done to him, that would have traumatized him. As it is, we let him know that he didn’t do anything wrong—other than not tell us what had happened. And that was the end of it. My son didn’t feel abused, hurt, or violated. Benjamin left the dinner table after our discussion feeling like a normal, healthy five-year-old who wanted to go trick-or-treating. And so he has.
When I get to the den, Peter and his friends are sitting on the floor in front of the television. Peter looks up. “Is Mom gone yet?” he asks.
“Just left,” I say.
“That’s our cue, guys,” Peter says to his friends. Evidently, he has not told his mother about his planned pool activities.
“Peter, remember the rules, son. No horseplay around the pool. It’s getting dark, so turn the lights on out there.”
“I will, Dad, don’t worry.” They file out the door.
I pick up the phone and punch in Jim Aiken’s number. Nick answers.
“Hello, Nick, this is Glen Erskine. Happy Halloween.”
“Hi, Dr. Erskine. Same to you.”
“Is Jim around?”
“Yes, sir. We just finished supper. Hold on a minute and I’ll get him.”
I hear Nick’s footsteps on a wood floor. And in the distance he calls Jim to the phone.
Click. Jim has picked up an extension. “What’s up, Glen?”
I wait to hear Nick hang up the other phone. After I hear the click, I say, “Sorry I interrupted your supper.”
“No problem, we were finished. You almost missed me, though. I was about to run Nick back over to Chadwick.”
“Is he a boarding student?” I ask.
“This year. We haven’t decided about next. What can I do for you?”
“I just called to let you know that I met with Beth Carbon a little while ago. She told me everything Tommy is alleging, Jim. You’re not going to believe it. I sure as hell don’t.”
“Okay, Glen, let’s get together first thing in the morning. Early. Does Suzanne work? Will she be out of the house in the morning?”
“Yes, tomorrow is Wednesday, she’ll be at the clinic.”
“What time does she usually leave?”
“Around eight.”
“I’ll be there at eight-thirty.”
“Okay, Jim. I’ll see you then. And thanks again.”
“Right, buddy.”
Click.
After thirty minutes and no trick-or-treaters, I decide to go out to the pool and check on the boys. As soon as I’m on the patio I know they are having a good time. Shouts, giggles, and laughs pierce the cool evening air.
I round the hedge and see a quite heated splash fight ensuing in the shallow end of the pool. It’s almost dark now and the pool lights are casting their eerie blue-green glow into the night. The steam rising from the heated water only adds to the effect.
“Hey, you guys having fun yet?” I ask. The splashing stops.
“DAD!” Peter looks at me, mortified. “Is Mom with you?”
“No, she’s still out with Benjamin.” I notice all the boys look relieved at my answer. A couple of them whisper something. Giggles all around. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“We’re skinny-dipping, Dad. We don’t have anything on. You wanna come in? The water’s great.”
“No, you guys go ahead and play. I just came out to check on you all.” I turn and head for the house.
“Aw, come on in, Dad. Don’t be shy.”
“Yeah, Mr. Erskine, don’t be shy,” Gabe Marshall says. And then all the boys start in on me to join them.
I turn around and hold up my hand. “Boys, I’ve had a rough day. I really don’t feel up to it. But thanks.”
“Well, at least stay out here a while, Dad. Don’t go in yet,” Peter says.
So I pull up one of the deck chairs and sit. Peter and his friends move to the steps in the shallow end and start getting out of the pool. For a moment I think they are going to try and throw me in. But no, they are headed to the diving board. They don’t even look over at me.
All five of them get on the diving board together. Peter is first, then Rick Morris, Sam Cooper, Luke Kuykendall, and Gabe Marshall. This is Peter’s clique at The Cathedral School. All the boys live in our neighborhood, except for Gabriel. He is the rector’s son at St. Mark’s.
I watch as they punch and poke each other, jockeying for position on the board, and my mind drifts back to memories of my own youth back on the farm in Virginia when my buddies and I would go down to the Nottaway River and go skinny-dipping. Afterwards, we would lie naked on one of the exposed sand bars out in the middle of the river until the sun had baked us dry. I suppose these boys are enjoying this heated and chlorine treated version as much as I enjoyed the real thing.
The first splash brings me back to the pool and the boys. Peter has just done a cannon ball. The others follow. They all swim to the ladder and are climbing out.
And then it hits me. I am watching nude boys at play. I am an accused child molester and I am enjoying watching these boys. Does that mean anything? I suddenly feel guilty, and that makes me angry. This is perfectly innocent, and were it not for the accusation against me I would not give this situation a second thought.
“Dad?” Peter says, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I look up. Peter is staring at me from the edge of the pool. He is in the deep end. Only his head is visible. He is supporting himself with his elbows.
“What is it, son?”
“I called you three times.”
“What do you want?” I say, sounding more irritated than I intended.
“Nothing.”
Peter swims to the ladder and climbs out of the pool. He picks up his towel and dries himself hastily. He wraps the towel around his waist and then comes over and plants himself on my lap.
I am surprised and pleased. Peter doesn’t sit on my lap much anymore. At five feet and almost a hundred pounds, he’s just too big. But I am more surprised that he would do it now, like this, in front of his friends. Peter’s teeth start to chatter in the chill of the night air. I put my arms around him.
“What’s up, son?”
“Are you okay, Daddy?”
“I’m fine. Why?”
“I don’t know. You haven’t been acting right today. I’ve been watching you sitting here. It’s like you’re on another planet or omething’. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. There is a lump in my throat. I squeeze Peter tightly and kiss him on the cheek. “Your daddy’s okay, son. I’ve just had a really bad day. Go play with your friends. I didn’t mean to come out here and spoil your good time. I’ll go in and leave you guys alone.”
“No, don’t. I want to sit with you a while, if it’s alright,” he says.
“I’d like that.”
Peter shifts his weight and snuggles up under my chin. He is wet and he has me soaked and I don’t care. I hug him to me again and kiss him on the top of the head. Words can’t begin to describe the love I feel for my son right now.
“Are you Glen Erskine?” a voice says from behind us.
Peter lifts his head. I turn toward the voice. It’s a uniformed officer. A sheriff’s deputy.
I nudge Peter to get up. He does and lets the towel fall to the ground.
“Where are your clothes, son?” the deputy asks.
I stand. “Officer, I can explain this.” I reach down and get the towel and hand it to Peter. He wraps it around himself.
“Are you Glen Erskine?”
“I am.”
The deputy removes his radio from his belt. He speaks into the microphone. “Twenty-one?”
“Go ahead,” comes back through the speaker.
“Subject is in the backyard by the pool. He’s got a naked boy back here with him now.”
Oh, shit. What else is going to happen?
“Look, officer, this is not what it looks like.” I pan the scene with my outstretched arm. Peter’s four friends are standing now in hip deep water, watching and wondering what is going on. Peter steps to my side and puts his arm around me.
“Was he molesting you, son?” the deputy says to Peter.
Peter looks up at me. His expression says, Is this guy nuts? The deputy walks over and takes Peter by the arm and tries to pull him away from me.
“Let go of me!” Peter jerks his arm free of the deputy’s grip. “This is my dad, you asshole!”
I look down at my son in disbelief. I have never heard him use vulgarity before. His friends are snickering in the pool. “Officer, I apologize. Peter, I want you to tell this man you are sorry for calling him that.”
“Sorry,” Peter says. Not very sincere, but it will have to do.
Before I can say anything else, Moultrie and Carter come around the hedge. And Suzanne. And Benjamin, dressed like a Power Ranger ready for action.
Suzanne looks at me. “Glen, what’s going on? What do these men want with you?”
Moultrie walks up to me. “Glen Michael Erskine?”
“Yes?”
“I have a warrant for your arrest for the sexual molestation of Thomas Wayne Jackson. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them?”
I don’t respond. I’m numb.
“Mr. Erskine, do you understand?” Moultrie says.
“Yes,” I manage to get out.
“Cuff him, deputy.”
As the deputy attempts to handcuff me, Peter kicks him in the shin with his bare foot. “GET AWAY FROM MY DAD!” he shouts.
“Peter, that’s enough!” I put my hands on his shoulder and pull him back. His towel falls to the ground.
“Peter? Where are your swimming trunks?” Suzanne asks.
Peter doesn’t answer. He turns and looks into my eyes. Studying me. Probing me for answers. Suddenly he grabs me and hugs me tightly and starts crying. I nod to the deputy and then put my hands behind my back. He steps over and snaps the cuffs around my wrists.
Benjamin is crying now, too. He runs over and grabs me around the legs. “Don’t let ’em take you, Daddy!”
I look over at Suzanne. “Come get them,” I tell her.
She pulls our sons off me. She picks up the towel and wraps it around Peter.
“You better call their parents.” I jerk my head toward the pool. “Once Peter gets himself together he can explain what was going on out here. Isn’t that right, son?” I look at Peter.
He sniffles and nods.
“Alright, Mr. Erskine,” Moultrie says, “let’s go.”
The deputy starts to lead me away. I turn to Suzanne and our sons. The look of fear and confusion in their faces rips at my soul. “One of Jim Aiken’s cards is on my valet in our dressing room, Suzanne. Call and tell him what has happened. Ask him to meet me at the jail. He will explain everything to you.”
Now if someone would just explain it to me.
I am sitting alone in my cell at the county jail. The booking went more smoothly than I had anticipated. I was not treated with scorn or disrespect. The cuffs were removed once we were in the police station. I was offered coffee as
the deputy completed the paperwork. They asked if I would like to make a statement without my attorney present.
“I didn’t do it,” I told them. When the officer tried to ask me another question I refused to answer and told them I wanted to speak to my attorney.
That was two hours ago. I have not heard from Jim. I did not use my phone call because I trust that Suzanne called Jim as I asked her to do. Perhaps he is at our house now trying to—
“Glen?”
I look up.
“Jim! I thought you’d never get here. Where have you been?”
Jim waits for the deputy to open the cell door. He walks in. I stand and shake his hand. The door clangs shut.
“Did my wife call you?” I ask. We sit on the edge of the bottom bunk.
“Yes. Why didn’t you tell her what was going on, Glen?”
“I don’t know. I thought—I hoped—it would never get this far. I thought she would never have to know anything about it. I should have told her right away. Dumb. Dumb.”
“Speaking of dumb, what the hell were you doing around the pool with a bunch of naked boys?”
“They were Peter’s friends, Jim. I went out to the pool to check on them. I didn’t know they were swimming in the nude.”
Jim shakes his head. I get angry. “Now wait just a damn minute.” I get up and start pacing. “Nothing happened. I’m not—”
“Just relax, Glen. I didn’t say anything happened. Suzanne said it took about an hour, but Peter and his buddies convinced Moultrie of that. He really put those kids through the ringer, according to your wife.”
Bastard.
“He’s really enjoying sticking it to me, isn’t he? Why?”
“I wouldn’t presume to know the solicitor’s motivations. I’d like to think he’s only doing his job the best way he knows how. You should know, Glen, that Moultrie had a search warrant.”
“A search warrant? For my house?”
“Yes?”
“What was he looking for?”
“Evidence. They went over the bedroom where Tommy slept with a fine tooth comb.”
“They didn’t find anything. There wasn’t anything to find,” I say.
“I don’t know. Suzanne said they took some things from your study...some of your books and journals.”
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