Читать книгу Amen's Boy - William Maltese - Страница 7

CHAPTER THREE

THE ALLEY

It was early July 1957, a few days after the second camp trip for the prospective seminarians, when I was walking home from the C.Y.O.. I took a shortcut through the back yards of our neighbors, and came upon my brother, Bubba. He had his penis out in his hand, and I assumed he was taking a leak, but he quickly put it back into his pants and shouted for me to come right up to him, to come very close to him. Too close for comfort.

He began by spitting in my face and slapping me very hard across my face where his spit landed on my cheek. I was startled, but I knew he was crazy mean, and I was beginning the ritual I knew so well, figuring how to run and escape him. I think my father felt the same sometimes, just wanting to escape Bubba’s violence and craziness. Daddy had to deal with my older brother. To this day, I refuse to say my brother’s real name; what he did is so sinister that I do not even want the karma of his name to backsplash on me. He was naturally sadistic.

When I came up on him in the alley, he slapped my face cruelly, using the butt of his hand. Then he ordered me to hit my head against the garage wall. We were between two garage walls that created an alley about two or three feet wide, almost fifteen feet long, a narrow dark alley overhung by a giant mimosa tree in bloom. I knew not to argue. I slammed my head hard against one of the walls. I did what he said, but he slugged me across my head mercilessly anyway, and his blow threw my head against the wall with many times greater force than I’d used, and he told me in an angry seething voice, “NOW! Hit your head against the wall as hard as you can or I’ll do that again, only harder!”

I didn’t know what to do but to comply. He was a giant to me; I was hardly over a hundred pounds. He was seventeen and strong, athletic. He didn’t approve of the hard hit I did with my head the second time, so he slammed his fist against my temples again so hard I almost lost consciousness. The force of his blow slammed my head against the wall even harder. Again, “NOW! Hit your head against the wall harder or I’ll kill you!”

I felt terrified and trapped. I hit my head over and over against the wall every time he yelled at me to do so, six or seven more times, and every time, he tormented me and slugged me harder over and over. My eyebrow was bleeding. I was unable to see, and I was crying. He spit on me again and yelled for me to get out of his sight. Stumbling like a drunken man, I walked and fell, and crawled and fell, and finally crossed the last field and got home.

My mother took me in, locked the doors, put me in the bathroom and bathed me. I don’t remember anything for several days afterwards, but I knew my head hurt. The doctor made a house call, gave me an injection, and left some pills for me. Mother and Daddy nursed me for what seemed like a month. It was only a week, and Bubba waited for me to get well. He jeered at me when he could find me alone. He promised more of the same. I was in constant fear of him.

Bubba preceded me at Assisi Elementary School, prejudicing the nuns against me. They expected I’d be trouble for them like he was. I lived in the shadow of his evil behavior.

It became harder and harder for my parents to control and hide my brother’s violent behavior. One morning, Bubba was in from an all-night drinking and dancing party night. He was in the foldaway bed in the den, I don’t know why. The television and my toys were in there, and at eleven years old, I was foolishly impatient. I slipped into the den where he slept to play with my toys, and there Bubba was displaying his erect penis. I didn’t know he was so big. I’d never seen him like this. I didn’t know much about sex, and I was mesmerized. I stared from the corner by the door. Then my father came suddenly in, almost knocking me over. Unfortunately my brother thought he’d been seen by my father, and although my father didn’t see the exhibitionism, my brother jumped out of the bed.

He screamed to my father, “Get that little faggot out of here! Get that little queer out of here or I’ll kill him.”

I was surprised when my father stood up for me. He said, “Let him get his things. He’s not bothering you.” These words of my father ignited a furnace. My brother leapt across the room, squatting down on the floor. He put his eyes directly into my eyes and called me a “Faggot!” Then from his frog-like squatting position he rose rapidly, swirling his entire body weight upward, landing a mighty uppercut to my father’s face, knocking his glasses off, breaking them. Daddy’s nose began to bleed profusely. My daddy let out a whimpering cry, and then he fell to the floor moaning, “Oh Bubba! You broke my nose!”

My brother jumped into his blue jeans and black high-top tennis shoes, pulled a black tee shirt over his muscular shoulders and chest, and took off in his Simca.

The days of life at home were often occasions for my victimization. This contrasted with Father Terry’s interest in me. How I became a counselee of his was an odd turn of events. His music and hospitality surprised even me. What was supposed to be discipline and correction of my behavior by him, turned into a boon.

Sister Ida had it in for me. She set me up to be seen for counseling by one of the parish priests at Assisi. She taught Bubba years before and expected the same trouble out of me she’d had from him. She referred me to Father Damian, a strict and harsh man, a Jesuit away from his own kind, doing parish work. But Father Damian was sick with the flu and I was referred to Father Terry instead. I was very afraid. I had a secret I was ashamed of.

Sister Ida reported me for sexual misconduct during her religion class. It was not true. I had a problem at home, no doubt, addicted as I was to masturbation in the bathroom. I never did anything sexual in class; only my penis would stiffen suddenly without provocation, and would be stuck in some cramped bent angle in my jeans. It hurt like hell, so I would wait for her to face the black board, then tugged my crotch and zipper enough to make room for myself, to straighten it out, and stop the pain. She thought I was getting aroused on purpose and playing with it. I was new at this spontaneous erection business, and I thought it very cruel of her to report me to the priest. I didn’t know this was the charge she put against me, not at first, but in sessions with Father I soon learned Ida’s wrathful lies about me.