Читать книгу Hush Now Baby - Georgina Redding - Страница 8

My grandfather, my mother’s father, was by all accounts a family man, a religious man, a good man. He was a World War I veteran. He worked for the United States Post Office. He was married only once and he and his wife, my grandmother, had five children. One daughter died when she was a young child. No one talks about her.

My grandfather loved children. He was known to be quite generous and he would even randomly give money to children that he would see in the marketplace. He was charming, my grandfather.

When I was a very young child, we lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico, not far from my grandparents. My brother, sister, many cousins, and I would individually spend countless hours, days, and weekends at my grandparents’ home. Much of that time was spent alone with my grandfather.

He would take us on outings. We would go the racetrack. We would go the fair when it was in town. We would go to the bakery. We would go to church.

My grandfather would play with us outside. He would help us climb the big apricot tree to pick apricots. He would show us all his woodworking projects that he did in the garage. Sometimes, he would let us help him. The garage smelled of sawdust. I can remember him showing me the little white wooden cradle that he had made me for my doll.

On the nights that I slept over at my grandparents’ house, my grandfather would climb into bed with me and tell me stories. My grandfather would tell me stories with his words and with his hands. As he spoke, he would have his hands inside my pajamas and my panties.

I would lay still and listen and watch the clock on the wall. It was one of those clocks shaped like an owl. The eyes would roll back and forth and the pendulum tail would swing back and forth. And it seemed like a long time before the story was over. My grandfather would get out of bed, kiss my head, and say good night. There were many other places that my grandfather would take me to hurt me. Those words are for another time.

I do not know exactly when my grandfather began sexually abusing me. The earliest I can remember him touching me like that was when I was three years old. He continued to sexually abuse me when he had the opportunity until I was twelve years old and then he stopped.

When I was about six years old, my father relocated us to a small town in Northern California. My grandparents stayed in New Mexico. Sometimes my grandparents would come to California to visit us. Sometimes my mother would send us to Santa Fe to stay with them. We did not see my grandparents often but when we did, my grandfather made the occasions “memorable”.