being happy. Not you.”
Mom spoke the truth. I couldn’t help but hear references to her early life with Dad, when beatings and demonic head games were even more common. Mom spoke from experience; she knew, in a sense, what I was going through. I couldn’t say that for Dad. Mom had often told me she’d never lead me wrong, never lie to me, always tell me what was in my best interest, and
telling her the truth was in my best interest. Better to filter it through her, than give it to Dad straight.
“He was trying to screw me,” I said.
“In the butt?” Mom said in an unbelieving and disgusted voice. I didn’t think she meant to say it aloud; it was just too hard for her to comprehend. “But did he?”
“Dad found us before he could.”
“Has this happened before?”
Admitting to almost being screwed was one thing, but to say I had been, even if it was only once, was entirely different. What would Mom think of me? Would she, like I knew Dad would, see me in a shameful light? Has this happened before? Yes, this, exactly what happened today, had happened before, way back in Rubin’s closet, when he had wanted to screw me. He
hadn’t, but the desire and intent were there.
“Yeah, it happened before,” I said. “But he never screwed me. He wanted me to play with his...his...”
“His penis?” Mom said.
“Yes, ma’am. And he’d play with mine. But he never screwed me.”
Mom hugged me tightly and I felt her tears, warm and wet, on my neck. She patted and rubbed my back and rocked us side-to-side and repeated: “You didn’t do anything wrong, son.You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I stared at the Captain America drawing, wondering. If she knew the whole truth, would she still say I didn’t do anything wrong? I pulled free from Mom, snatched the drawing off the wall, and ripped it down the middle.
Mom went outside and left me to my tearing, ripping, and sobbing. By the time she returned with Dad, the picture was confetti scattered on the floor and my tears were dry.
“I’m going to see Bollars,” Dad said. “I bet that sonofabitch has something to do with all of this. He and Rubin are too close.”
“You don’t know anything for sure about him,” Mom said. “Rubin’s the one who hurt Wesley, not Bollars.”
“I still say Bollars has a hand in this,” Dad said. “But Rubin’s the one with his hand caught in the cookie jar. Goddammit! I knew not to trust that sonofabitch. Can’t give them people a chance. They fuck it up. But we’ll fix his ass.”
I didn’t like the sound of this. What were they going to do to Rubin? I thought it was over with my confession. I’d torn up the drawing and the swastika in the closet was next as soon as I got an opportunity.
“What are you gonna do?” I asked.
“Press charges. Send that salt-water nigger to jail.”
“He’s still a minor,” Mom said. “They’ll send him to reform school.”
“That’s jail for kids,” Dad said, “and that’s good enough. Just so long as he’s locked away from Wesley.”
Locked away? Rubin didn’t deserve jail, even one for kids. I couldn’t send Rubin away for something I had negotiated. Sending him to jail would be like reneging.
“Why do we have to lock him up?” I asked.
“Because he hurt you and broke the law, boy,” Dad said. “You ain’t trying to protect his sorry ass, are you?”
“No, sir. But ain’t jail kind of hard?”
“It’s supposed to be hard. You ain’t got enough backbone to punish the man who hurt you?”
“I’ve got backbone,” I said. “But...but he’s...but...”
“Did Rubin say he’d hurt you if you told?” Mom asked.
“It’s not that,” I said.
“But the little bastard did tell you that?” Dad asked.
“He said y’all wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand,” Dad said. “I understand damn well. He messed with you, my son, and he’s gonna pay for it.”
“But does he have to pay with jail?”
“Would you rather we didn’t do a damn thing,” Dad said, “just let him come back around and fuck you all he wanted?”
“He didn’t fuck me!”
“You’re acting like he did, and as if you enjoyed it. Why else would you want to protect him?”
I let tears flow. Crying was something I despised doing, especially in front of Dad. Every time I showed him tears, I felt that my value in his eyes depreciated. But this time I didn’t care.
The tears were better than the words I wanted to scream: We can’t send Rubin to jail because he only fucked me once and I was the one who set it up. I’m half-guilty and Rubin’s not completely guilty.
Mom hugged me and told Dad to leave the room.
“He always talks to you,” Dad said. “Won’t tell me a damn thing, except that he wants to protect some sonofabitching Puerto Rican queer.”
“Maybe it’s because of talk like that,” Mom said. “Now go on. I’ll take care of Wesley.”
I saw Dad through my tears, his hands on hips, arms jutting out, a look of determination and quick action on his face. He shook his head and walked out. He believed Rubin had fucked me.
“Rubin has to pay for what he did to you,” Mom said. “You understand that he did wrong, not you?” Mom waited for an answer and I nodded. “He’s older and knows better. All you have to do is tell a policeman what Rubin did to you. Can you do that?”
“Why do I have to tell anyone?”
“So they’ll know,” Mom said. “They won’t take our word. They have to hear it from you.”
“Isn’t there another way we can punish Rubin without sending him to jail?”
“I know you don’t want to see your friend go to jail,” Mom says, “but what he did to you, he’s not your friend. He doesn’t care for you, and you shouldn’t for him.”
Mom, her voice soft and delicate, took on the intensity of Dad. This sure sounded like a nice version of Dad’s “beat them to the fuck” motto.
I could do that. I could tell what happened. I just wouldn’t tell about everything in the van. In that case, we were both guilty. In the bathroom earlier today, Rubin was wrong.
Mom called the police and Dad sat at the kitchen table smoking. I sat in my usual spot next to Dad, but he didn’t look at me. Smoke curled in front of his face and he kept his eyes focused on Mom.
“They say we can come on down to the station,” Mom said. “They called a Captain Nelson in who’ll meet us there.”
Dad, accustomed to maneuvering an eighteen-wheeler through city traffic, made it downtown to the police station without ever catching a red light, and we beat Captain Nelson to
the station. Instead, a young policeman with short brown hair and deep blue eyes too small for his face met us at the front desk. He sat behind glass and had to turn on a speaker full of static to
talk to us.
“Big as that boy is,” the cop said, “he should know better.”
“My son ain’t but twelve,” Dad said. “Did you know better at that age? Huh, you sonofabitch?”
“Sir, you can’t curse an officer.”
“Bullshit! I can curse you. I can’t lay one fucking finger on you, but I can curse you. Especially when you’re being a smart aleck shitass about my son.”
The young cop cowed his head.
“What’s the problem here?” a lady cop asked. She had a soda in her hand and was my height.
“I want to report that someone’s been sexually abusing my son.”
“What’s your name, young man?” the lady cop asked.
“Wesley.”
“Tell her your whole name,” Dad said.
“Wesley Royal, Jr.”
“Wesley Royal, Jr., I’m Officer Schultz. Would you like a tour of the police station? See if it’s like TV?”
“Where you gonna take him?” Dad asked.
The lady cop leaned in close to Dad. I couldn’t catch what she said, but I had a feeling that this wasn’t going to be a normal tour.