Читать книгу Fear Thy Father - Anonymous - Страница 6

Yesterday I returned to my hometown. It was a warm summer day and I drove my rental car into the little town and stopped at the first building. Carl’s Service Station.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the young man, pushing his cap farther back on his head and smiling at me. “What can I do for you?”

“Fill the tank, please,” I told him, hoping he couldn’t hear the fear in my voice.

No, it isn’t fear, I told myself, just uncertainty. You learned long ago to conquer your fear.

I stepped out of the car and ignored the leer on the young man’s face as his eyes took in my tan legs below my snow-white shorts. “Do you have a restroom?”

“Sure,” he said, nodding toward the door, his eyes taking in the rest of my body. I knew how I looked and I was used to the way men looked at me. “You’ll have to get a key from beside the door. We have to keep it locked.”

I smiled to myself and headed toward the door. Things hadn’t changed here. You always had to have a key to use the less than spotless bathroom at Carl’s.

Who’s Carl, anyway? I asked myself as I carefully used the facilities and washed my hands. When I lived in Clarksville, the place had been run by an old, gray-haired man. Maybe that was Carl.

“Carl still around?” I asked the kid.

“Carl?” he said, a frown on his face. “Aw, the sign. No, there ain’t been no Carl here since I been here.”

I paid him and pulled away, the old knot of fear tightening my stomach muscles. I beat my fist on the steering wheel and told myself that I was a grown woman now.

I had nothing to be afraid of.

I passed the dry goods store, the jail, and the police station. A lone policeman lounged by the door, his eyes following me as I drove down the street. I knew he made a mental note of the out-of-town license plates.

Mary’s was still the only restaurant in town, its windows still flyspecked, with what looked like the same dirty, red-checkered curtains. The post office looked like the only new building in town and it wasn’t much bigger than a good-sized bathroom. The school, with its pockmarked yard, was empty, three yellow school buses parked inside the fence. A few houses sat back from the street on each side and in one yard, a teenage girl was washing a car. She glanced my way as I passed and then went back to her job.

I slowly counted the houses I passed. At the eighth one, I saw my first sign of any activity. Five or six cars sat in the driveway, and people lounged on the wide front porch. Heads turned and eyes stared as I parked my car and got out. My knees were weak and I longed to jump back in my car and bolt madly from this place.

I didn’t want to go in.

I took a deep breath and went around to the trunk. I pulled out my suitcase and lugged it up the walk. Not a man on the porch offered to help. A sob caught in my throat. It’d always been like that for me in this town, at this house.

Nobody had ever tried to help me.

The years rolled away and I was six again, coming home from school, walking slowly, reluctantly up the walk, my book bag bumping against my legs. Fearfully, I stared at the house, wishing desperately that my mama were home. Sometimes when she was home, my daddy didn’t hit me so hard or make me clean and re-clean the bathroom because of some imagined sin.

“Cathy,” my daddy said, holding open the screen door, “get in here! What the hell you doing standing out there on the sidewalk?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I mumbled, hurrying past him into the house.

“I checked your room this morning and it could use a good cleaning. I suggest you get it done before your mama comes home.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled, hurrying down the hallway. I knew my room was spotless, but I also knew that if he said clean it, then I had to do it.

Changing into some old clothes, I got a bucket and some water. He handed me an old rag as I lugged the bucket down the hallway, trying not to spill a drop. I could feel him behind me and I cringed, trying not to hold my breath. As I went through the door, he stuck his foot in front of me and I went down, spilling the water all the way across the hardwood floor. The small rug in front of my bed was instantly soaked

“What’s the matter with you?” he snarled, setting his big foot in my back and pushing my body into the floor. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a child so clumsy.”

I knew what was coming and I knew there was nothing I could do about it. I lay waiting for his big hand to slam into my buttocks. I gasped, trying not to cry out. Crying out only made the punishment worse. Three more times his hand hit my bottom, jarring my whole body. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I bit my lip to keep from weeping.

Jerking me roughly to my feet, he stood me up, his face only inches from mine. His eyes were wild as he shook me a few times. “Get this mess cleaned up. You hear me?”

Even at six, resentment was a bitter taste in my mouth as I thought about how unfair it all was. He’d deliberately tripped me so that I’d spill the water so he could spank me. Later, he’d humiliate me in front of my mother by telling her how clumsy and stupid I was. Deep in my heart, I believed she knew that he was the cause of my “accidents,” but I tried not to think about it. After all, she was my mother and she loved me, but she also knew that my father didn’t love me, and I’d learned to live with it.

I sat in misery at the table that night as he explained what had happened to my mother. She just looked at me with sad eyes and shook her head.

The next day was Saturday and the pattern was set. My mother did the housework while I helped. My father liked everything spotless.

“Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” he used to quote, although I found out later that it wasn’t even in the Bible at all. He had many other sayings he quoted from the Bible that probably weren’t really in there at all, but a six-year-old couldn’t know that.

My father was a great churchgoer. We dressed in our finest and went to Sunday school and church on Sunday mornings and Sunday nights. He was a deacon in the church and was well respected by everyone. I understood that. He was a different man on Sundays at church than he was at home through the week.

He always acted so proud of his daughter and his wife. “My reasons for living,” he’d say, smiling fondly at us both and ruffling my hair with the same hand he’d used to twist my arm before we’d left the house. “God has blessed me with a fine family and I give thanks for them every day.”

Mom would look down at her shoes and smile shyly. We always sat in the second pew from the front, with me in the middle. I was never allowed to look at the hymnals or write on anything or even fall asleep.

Many Sundays my father was asked to pray. He could bring tears to the eyes of the congregation with his long, eloquent prayers. They would rush to him afterward, wring his hand and tell him how much they’d enjoyed his prayers.

“You must be so proud of your father,” many a teary-eyed matron would say to me. I’d just nod my head, trying not to grimace from the pain of his big hand squeezing mine.

Sunday afternoons were spent in more cooking and cleaning while he watched the ball games, and then back to church that night. Nobody ever even suspected that he was a different man at home than he was when we entered the doors of the church.

My father was the local postmaster and my mother was secretary to the mayor of our small town, so we were well known to everybody. Our house was in a good neighborhood, and my father drove a good car. I never knew if it was because I was a girl and he’d wanted a boy, that my father mistreated me. He didn’t like my mother very much, either. He continually told her how stupid and ugly she was, and how, if it wasn’t for him, she wouldn’t be working in the mayor’s office.

“Earl would fire you in a minute if it wasn’t for me,” he would snarl, making my mother cringe.

Earl Hunter had been mayor of our small town for as long as I could remember. Mr. Hunter and my father were good friends. We all went to the same church, and Mr. Hunter was also a deacon. He and his wife, Emmylou, had three boys. They never visited our home, but we all attended church functions together. The Hunter boys were rough and rowdy and Mrs. Hunter had no control over them whatsoever. When they got out of hand, my father would laugh uproariously and tell my mother and me that they were just boys being boys.

But I had to sit quietly between my parents or stand patiently by their sides as my father talked endlessly to other people. If I fell asleep or moved, he’d move toward me and his hand would settle heavily on my shoulder, and I’d know that I was in for it when we got home.

My only outlet for keeping my sanity was school. I liked school. There, I learned to read and do math and color, and I learned history. There was no way that my father could keep me from learning. Any attempt to intimidate the school system would only have made him look foolish, and he was always very careful not to look foolish or mean in front of anyone but his own family.

When my teachers gave me homework, I always sneaked it into the house and hid it in my room. If my father caught me, he’d look at anything I’d written or colored and make fun of it.

“Looks like hen scratching to me,” he’d say, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “I can’t believe my good tax money is going to a school that can’t teach better than this. ‘Course, they don’t have much to work with, do they?”

“No, sir,” I’d mumble, reaching for my paper, but he’d laugh and tear it to bits and drop it in the wastebasket.

“When you do something worth keeping, I’ll let you know.”

When I was twelve, the real nightmare began. At first, he just began to hug me more.

“You’re growing up, Cathy,” he’d say, his arms tight around me, his stale breath hot on my neck. “Not very pretty, but a good body, for sure. Yessir, a good body. We’ll need to do something about that. Can’t have all the boys gawking at you.”

So he instructed my mother to buy me some long skirts and loose blouses. My hair was pulled back and braided. Of course, no makeup was allowed. I felt humiliated when I went to school and the kids laughed at me. I tried to ignore them and bury my head in books. Life became almost unbearable for me, but I didn’t know what to do.

Coming home one afternoon, I cringed when I saw Dad’s car in the driveway. I wanted to turn and run, but I thought he might’ve seen me out the window. I was right. When I was at the edge of the porch, the front door opened and he stood there with a beer in his hand, a leer on his red, sweaty face.

“Hi, Cathy,” he said. “Your mama called and she’s going to a meeting with the mayor tonight, so it’s going to be just you and me for supper. Come on in and let’s see what we can rustle up.”

I hung back, more scared than usual. He had a funny look on his face and he never fixed supper for me.

“Why don’t you go to your room and put on something more comfortable and I’ll heat up some pizza from the freezer? I think your mama left some salad, too. Sounds good, huh?” His big hand squeezed my behind as I rushed past him.

Trembling, I went into my room and turned to lock my door. Terror gripped me as I realized that the lock had been removed. Standing in the middle of the room, I felt like a trapped animal. I looked wildly around, but I knew there was no place to hide.

“You ought to hurry up, Cathy. The pizza will be done in a few minutes. You know how fast it cooks,” he called from behind me, where he was standing in the open doorway, watching me. There was a hint of a threat in his voice.

“I think I’ll just eat in this.” I kept my back turned to him and shook my long, shapeless skirt with my hand. “It needs to be washed, anyway.”

“Nonsense,” he said heartily. “You can’t be comfortable in those things.”

Suddenly, his hands came around my waist and lifted up under my loose blouse and covered my breasts. “What the hell you doing wearing that stupid thing?” he growled as his rough, hot hands encountered my training bra.

I struggled to pull away, but he only laughed and pulled me back hard against him. I felt totally humiliated as I felt his hard penis pressing against me. I struggled frantically, forcing myself not to scream. Even in my fright, I knew he’d only punish me more if I cried out.

“What are you doing?” he growled, releasing me for a moment and then turning me around to face him. “You don’t think I’m going to hurt you, do you?”

Numbly, I shook my head.

“Come on, Cathy, I’m your father. I only want the best for you. This is something every father teaches his daughter if he loves her. Someday, you’ll want to get married, and how will you know how to do that if your old man doesn’t teach you? God gave you to me to teach. The Bible says that you belong to me until you’re married, and until that time, I’m to teach you what you need to know. You understand?”

I stopped struggling and stared at him. Was he telling the truth? Was it all right for him to put his hands on me like this? Up until now, I hadn’t believed it. I’d heard the other kids at school sniggering about sex, but I didn’t know much about it at all.

“Come on,” he said, beginning to unbutton my blouse. “Let your old man show you what it’s going to be like to be married. It’s really very nice and you’re going to enjoy it.” His voice was soothing and his hands were trembling as he removed my blouse, and then my bra. Throwing the bra across the room, he said, “Don’t let me catch you wearing that damn thing again. You don’t need it.”

“Wh-what about the pizza?” I choked. “Won’t it burn?”

“Nah,” he said, his eyes glazing over as he took me in. “I haven’t even put it in the oven yet, so we can enjoy ourselves and then have something to eat afterward.”

He unbuttoned my skirt and pushed it down, leaving me standing before him in my panties. Frantically, I searched the room, praying that my mother would suddenly come home.

Help! Help! I screamed silently. Please, somebody help me! But there was no help for me.

Pushing me down onto my bed, my father pulled off my panties and began to rub his hands all over my body. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited, praying he’d be done soon. I felt the bed move as he climbed up over me. I kept my eyes shut. He had to quit in a minute, I thought. But he didn’t.

Shock ran through me as I felt his naked, hairy legs on mine and felt the hardness of his organ probing between my legs. Gasping, I clasped my legs together, but I was no match for his strength, and in a moment, I felt a searing pain as he tore into me. In spite of all my resolutions, I screamed out then, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was wild-eyed and drooling, seemingly unaware that I screamed each time he shoved himself into me.

I don’t know how long it lasted. At some point, I think I passed out. I came to lying on the bed with the spread drawn up over me. My body ached all over and my legs were so sore that I couldn’t move. Tears streamed down my face and my body shook as if I was freezing.

“Come on, sleepyhead,” my father said cheerfully from the doorway. “Get up and put some clothes on. The pizza’s done. Smells good, huh?”

“I don’t want any,” I mumbled from under the spread.

“Sure you do,” he said, the threat immediately back in his voice. “You have to eat something—need to keep your strength up. I know our little love tryst was fun, but you still need to eat.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t feel like it.”

“I said you’ll eat!” he roared. “Now get your ass out of bed and eat this pizza I cooked for us!”

Wearily, I dragged myself out of bed and put on some jeans and a heavy, shapeless sweater. I was still cold and the last thing in the world that I wanted to do was sit across the table from my father. Later, I would know that he had raped me, but at the time, I was torn between the thought that all fathers did this for their daughters and I was just being ungrateful, and that what we’d done was ugly and terribly, terribly wrong. I cringed later as I realized how naive I was.

We ate supper in silence that night as Dad watched the news on television, commenting now and then on something going on in the world. The pizza tasted like cardboard and the salad like grass, but I ate mine when I realized he was watching me closely and I’d probably get a beating if I didn’t satisfy him.

And so, my nightmare began. But there was no one to comfort me in the dark night because nobody cared.

A dozen times I started to tell Mom about us, but at the last moment, I always changed my mind. I wasn’t sure exactly what caused me to stop, but I somehow knew that she wouldn’t like it, and if there was something wrong, it would be my fault. I felt like she would always take my father’s side against me.

The abuse continued, but I gradually became numbed to the pain and humiliation. At first, it was only once a month or so, and then more frequently. Each time he hugged me and told me that he was preparing me for marriage.

“Someday, you’ll meet a nice boy and want to get married. You’ll be ready for him and he’ll be grateful for my teaching.”

I often wondered how I could possibly meet a nice boy when I had to wear such awful clothes and he never let me out of his sight except to go to school. At church, I was tucked in between him and Mom even though she suggested a couple of times that I might be allowed to sit with the other children.

“Do her good to mix with them,” Mom said, watching some of the teenagers file into the back pew.

“No,” my Dad said coldly. “She has no business with that riffraff. Sittin’ back there giggling and punching each other. I won’t have a daughter of mine actin’ like that in church.”

He was even more pious than he used to be. So pleased with himself. Always criticizing people because they weren’t like him. Always telling everybody what a happy little family we were.

“Nothin’ in the world better than a good family,” he would say proudly, pulling me close. “And I got the best family in the world. You won’t see my daughter gallivanting around at all hours of the night. I keep a tight rein on her, I’ll tell you. I’m makin’ sure she’s a fit wife for the right young man.”

Mama looked at him funny when he said that and about halfway shook her head. She’d come home from work one Thursday night and almost caught him on top of me. She called out as she came in the back door and Dad jumped off of me and scrambled into his pants. He was angry and nervous. He hadn’t finished and he was scared. Later, I heard them talking in their room. She was accusing him of something and he was putting her off with Bible verses and quotes like he always used when he got into trouble.

The next morning, my mother looked at me long and hard and turned on her heel and left. Suddenly, I knew.

She knew.

She knew, and she wasn’t going to do anything about it. She was scared of him!

Sometimes she’d try to separate us—come home early complaining of a headache, as if she hoped to keep him from harassing me, but she was never successful. He always found a way. I came to believe that she was even more scared of him than I was.

To tell you the truth, I didn’t want to sit with the other kids in the back pew. They always made fun of my clothes and my braids.

“When’s your daddy gonna let you wear skirts up to your knees?” they’d laugh. “What you hidin’ under there, anyway? And that’s the worst hairdo I ever saw! Your mama still braid it for you?”

I just kept quiet, hung my head, and walked on by. But by the time I was fifteen, my resentment had grown until I hated my father with all my heart. He was still coming to my bed every night and beginning to make me do things that I couldn’t possibly believe were right. When I objected, he’d slap me hard across the face.

“I’m your father!” he’d roar. “You’ll do as I say!”

“Fathers aren’t supposed to do this with their daughters!” I said one afternoon. “I saw it on television the other day. They said it was something called incest and it isn’t right!”

“Don’t you tell me about what’s right!” he roared. “I know what’s right and if that’s the kind of stuff you’re going to watch, we’ll just unplug the TV until I can supervise your watching! Now, you’ll do as I say, and I don’t want to hear any more about it!”