Abuse

  “I hope I didn’t offend you,” I say. My car shakes slightly, as I pass a huge semi-trailer.

  “Not at all.”

  I’m not homophobic—it doesn’t bother me in the least Danny is gay. People who complain the longest and loudest about gays and lesbians are usually in denial. Like the anti-gay politicians who turn out to be homosexual, they fear their own impulses.

  The GPS instructs me to take the next exit. I turn on the blinker and slide into the right lane. We must be getting close to our destination.

  “Cody seemed to have it together,” Danny says, commenting about the guy we saw this morning.

  “Yes, thank God. I’m glad we saw him first. Miguel was… difficult.”

  Danny gives a derisive chuckle. “You think so?”

  “Oh yeah. I hope he’s the worst we have to deal with. At least Shawna let us in. I don’t think he would have.”

  Remarkably, my facial scars help when meeting strangers on their doorstep. I shock them, but most people assume I’m a patriot who’s been disfigured during combat. This makes them feel guilty about refusing to talk to me. It gives me an in.

  When Cody Bentley received his photo, he hadn’t been totally surprised. Mostly, he remembered his abuse, yet he’d tucked it away as one of those things he’d figure out later. All in all, I think he took it pretty well.

  We shared our plans with Cody about forming a support group and arranging for counseling. Danny and I told our own stories, which had made it easier for Cody to open up.

  Strangely, although he'd thought he remembered his past, Cody couldn’t recall what he saw in his picture. Danny and I experienced the same thing with our photos. We can't remember them being taken, we don’t recall being there.

  I’ve concluded my father must've drugged children at times in order to obtain explicit images. Sickening. Horrible. Inexcusable. What else did he do when these boys were unconscious? God, how I hate him.

  If my father wasn’t dead, I wouldn’t use a gun.

  I’d beat him to death with my bare hands.

  Chapter 30.

  "Success consists of getting up just one more time than you fall."

  — Oliver Goldsmith

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  “I worry Miguel might kill himself,” Danny says, echoing my own thoughts on the matter. “It’s so different how he and I reacted. In my case, I knew something was wrong with me all of my life. Seeing that picture was a relief. It explained everything. Unfortunately, it seemed to work the opposite with Miguel. He thinks he’s a freak.”

  “Yeah,” I say grimly, taking an exit off the freeway and slanting Danny a look. “At least now he can deal with it and when he does I bet he becomes physically well. He needs to vent, a lot. We’ll both keep in touch with him.”

  “Yes, we will,” Danny agrees. “I’m glad I got him on that ‘Abuse Survivors’ Facebook page. I’ve found it indispensable. It’s a relief to talk to others who've been in a similar place as us. Even if they’re strangers—at least you know you’re not alone.”

  “True. I think telling him our own stories helped, too.”

  “I’m sure it did,” Danny says confidently. “It’s so isolating to think you’re the only one.”

  I nod. “The charity I set up will pay for his counseling, when he’s ready for it. Lord knows, he’s an emergency case. I hope he goes to André, but that’s up to him.”

  Danny grins. “André’s amazing. Here I thought I was in love with you.” He flings up a hand. “That was nothing. I’m definitely in love with that guy.”

  I laugh loudly, pleased Danny’s doing so well under the charming Frenchman’s care. “From what I hear, you may need to take a number,” I warn. “André’s practically got a fan club. He deserves it. He’s pretty lovable.”

  My GPS directs us to turn right, then informs us we’ve arrived. The house we’re looking for is a modest three-bedroom ranch style home. We park out front, turn off the ignition and get out of the car.

  Zachary Bailey, the man we hope to visit, is twenty-five years old. We weren’t able to reach him when we called, so we left a message on his voicemail. Zachary is self-employed, doing something with computer systems.

  We walk up his driveway, climb up the steps, knock at the front door and wait. We don’t even know if he's at home

  After a minute, the door opens about six inches, stopped by a sliding chain. A pair of startlingly intense blue eyes glares out at us.

  The eyes are a window to person’s soul, so I study his.

  In the battlefield, I’ve seen wide, dilated eyes, shaking with panic. I’ve seen mad, suspicious eyes from those who are too broken to absorb or trust anything around them. I’ve watched eyes filled with excruciating pain, the agony easing with morphine until they become staring, empty eyes. Eyes blank with death.

  This man’s intense gaze is edgy and penetrating. He isn’t panicked, or sad. If anything, his alert watchfulness is filled with rage. They focus on my scars.

  Instinctively, I step back, prepared for insanity, but I quickly see he’s not crazy—or at least not certifiably mad. There’s intelligence and hyper awareness there.

  “What the fuck happened to your face?” a deep, belligerent male voice demands.

  I grin, liking him already. My hideous facial scars are the most obvious thing about me. While no one ever asks about them, everyone wonders. His brutal honesty makes for a nice change.

  “I was in the Army,” I explain. “It’s a war wound.”

  He regards us with an electric blue gaze, closely studying every part of our bodies, head to toe. I’ve seen this before too; he’s checking for weapons. Is he paranoid? Or simply being careful?

  “OK army guy,” he snaps. “What’re you doin’ on my doorstep?”

  I tilt my head, narrow my eyes. “Are you Zachary Bailey?”

  “Who’s askin’?” His voice is deep; there’s a menacing rumble to it.

  I make introductions, tell him we left him a phone message. “We’re looking for members from our Boy Scout troops from a number of years ago.” When Bailey doesn’t respond to this, I keep going. Eventually, I broach the most important subject.

  “Danny and I both received photos anonymously in the mail—they were disturbing. Did you happen to receive any photos recently?”

  Bang!

  To my surprise, the front door loudly slams shut in Danny and my face.

  Whoa! We silently look at each other, unsure what to make of it. I figure that’s it—the guy’s gone. He’s refusing to talk to us.

  I hear the distinctive sound of the inside chain sliding and rattling against the wood of the entrance. The door swings open, this time all the way.

  “Come in,” Bailey growls.

  Bailey looks as though he could belong to a motorcycle gang, a heavy metal band—or maybe a BDSM or Goth club, it’s hard to tell. He’s a big, big guy; a good three or four inches taller than I am, with an extra fifty pounds on his muscular torso. Maybe he’s a boxer. Or a cage fighter.

  Whatever he is, he’s as challenging as a junkyard dog. My hackles raise as I promptly measure him up for a fight.

  I can take him.

  Why my brain is wired for this kind of alpha male pissing contest, Lord only knows. Yet, a thought strikes me abruptly.

  André says not to imagine he has all the answers. He claims no one can tell me what is true for me. He recommends I trust my own instincts. If it feels right, it’s right for me.

  My lips curve, as I’m suddenly certain of a truth of mine. Why is my brain wired so when I see a man, I prepare for battle? It comes from fear and distrust of men in general, thanks to the efforts of my father.

  Smiling with my realization—which takes only an instant, I continue my assessment of our host.

  Bailey has shoulder length dark blonde hair and a darker blonde beard that could use a trim. He’s wearing black leather motorcycle boots, black jeans, faded black t-shirt with the name of a heavy metal ban
d on it. This unending sea of black is muted by a canvas of unique and colorful tattoos.

  His tough features are lean, the man is all muscle. He’s as aggressive as a prize winning bull. He even wears a ring through the middle part of his nose.

  The whole package says ‘go-to-hell,’ ‘fuck off,’ and ‘don’t even think about messing with me.’

  Danny and I step inside.

  Bailey kicks the door closed as soon as we clear it. Hidden behind his back, he pulls out a sawed-off shotgun. He holds it with calm, expert confidence. The man knows his way around a weapon.

  Son of a bitch!

  I can’t believe I didn’t take precautions.

  I was an Army Ranger! If I’d been more observant, if I’d moved in closer to him, I could have been prepared. What was I thinking?

  Bailey points the double barrel at us. The blood drains from Danny’s open-mouthed face.

  Instantly and automatically, we both raise our hands.

  “Sit over there.” He directs us by gesturing toward a worn, brown leather sofa with his weapon.

  Our hands in the air, Danny and I walk backwards and sit down on the sofa. He pulls out two pairs of handcuffs, throws them down on the sofa beside us.

  Handcuffs? Really? He has more than one pair? Fuck. Who the hell is this guy? What in the hell did we get ourselves into here? So much for good intentions.

  “You,” he gestures to Danny with his gun. “Cuff that guy.” He points at me. “I want his hands behind his back.”

  Danny hesitates, looks from Bailey to me. I regard Danny’s wide, frightened eyes and nod with a mask of composure. No need to get all worked up just yet.

  “Do it,” Bailey shouts, a harsh whip of command.

  My eyes still on Danny, I purposely exude calm confidence. I turn to present him my hands behind my back, quickly scanning the scene with my eyes. With time and patience, I’ll find a way out of this.

  With trembling fingers, Danny cuffs me, locking the cool metal onto me, one wrist at a time.

  Fuck.

  Chapter 31.

  “All the adversity I've had in my life, all my troubles and obstacles, have strengthened me... You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you.”

  — Walt Disney

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  Once my hands are cuffed, Bailey shackles Danny’s wrists behind his back, too. He then steps back, inching away while focusing on us.

  “Who sent you?” he demands.

  “We sent ourselves,” I say.

  “Bullshit,” Bailey growls. He glares at each of us, but his hard gaze returns to me. It’s those shocking blue eyes of his again. Intense. Direct.

  Forcing myself to regard him with calm equanimity, I assess the situation and make rapid battle preparations. It’s a simple formula, really. I can fight this out, or I can talk this out.

  Bailey’s obviously under a misapprehension. Just who exactly does he think we are?

  I’ll coolly explain and everything will be fine. If not, I’ll get the upper hand.

  I can take him.

  Zachary Bailey towers above us, his body taut, his solid, muscular build menacing. I can knock him unconscious—as long as he doesn’t bind my legs and feet.

  My mind echoes with possibilities, but this time, I’m not so sure.

  I can take him.

  But I hope I don’t have to. My adversary carries more weight and has the upper hand.

  “Don’t even think of it,” Bailey snarls, pointing his gun at me as his eyes drop to my feet. “You’re the dangerous one. I’ve got my eyes on you. I’ve got no intention of killing you, but bein’ kneecapped is a bitch,” he snarls the threat.

  My gaze steadily on him, I nod. Talking better work.

  “Look,” I say. “I don’t know who you think we are, but we aren’t here to cause trouble. You were in the Boy Scouts, right?”

  Bailey remains perfectly motionless, but his blue eyes flare with fresh fury. I swear I can see his finger tighten on the trigger.

  “Danny and I were Scouts, too,” I explain quickly. “A few weeks ago, we both received anonymous photos of us as kids. They were… graphic photos.”

  His square jaw is set, his eyes blaze with fury. Damn, he’s a scary looking bastard, especially when he’s pissed.

  I quickly add, “You can see mine—it’s in my back pocket. Danny has one, too. We’re just looking for closure, you know? Justice. We want to set things right.”

  This seems to calm him down a little. He points his gun toward Danny, “You…take the picture out of his back pocket.”

  Danny and I turn back to back. He feels his way into my pocket and pulls out the picture.

  “Now what?” Danny asks.

  “Stand up, walk over to that table.” He gestures with the shotgun toward a coffee table. “Drop it there, then sit back down.”

  When Danny is back in place, Bailey walks backwards to the table. His motorcycle boots sound loud on the wooden floor. His gun remains on us the whole time. From the moment he opened his door to us, Bailey’s been extremely careful. He’s obviously had some training.

  Bailey picks up the picture, studies it and regards me in a strangely different light. “This is you?”

  “Yes,” I say, “me and my father.”

  “He was a real asshole.”

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  “And your friend here has a picture like this, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “With your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is it?” he asks Danny.

  “Back pocket.”

  Bailey walks around to the other side of the sofa, bends down and pulls the photo out of the back pocket of Danny’s jeans with his left hand. He’s very careful to stay at a safe distance from me.

  I’m unable to make a move against him—he’s too careful, but I don’t think I want to anymore. I don’t want to take the risk of tackling him while cuffed. We’re talking now. Relating. We’re getting through to him. He’s more curious than pissed off now.

  Bailey steps back and studies the picture. “Do you know who sent these pictures?”

  “Not a clue, but we’re trying to track down everyone who received one.”

  Those blue eyes stare into me. “Why?”

  I shrug. “He was my father. All this time I thought I was the only one he messed with. Until Danny came to see me, I had no idea he’d been abusing others. I’m serious when I say I came to make it right.”

  He snorts. “How can you make it right?”

  I shrug. “Communication, counseling… the usual things.”

  Bailey pulls up a chair, turns it backwards, straddles the chair. He’s across from us about six feet away, his shotgun resting on one knee.

  “You,” he gestures toward Danny. “Tell me about this picture. What do you know?”

  Danny launches into his life of depression, mental health hospitalizations and suicidal thoughts. He explains he never understood what was wrong with him, until he received this picture. Memories of his past came back, all at once. Instead of feeling terrible about it, he was euphoric. His whole life suddenly made sense.

  “Well, that’s a hell of a thing,” Bailey says when Danny finishes giving him a synopsis of his life. “And you?” he adds, turning toward me.

  I detail my issues with booze, anger, self-hate and depression. I discuss my experiences with André, how he helped me face my past, taught me to see myself differently. André warned me pedophiles almost never stop at one child.

  “When Danny showed me his photo, I realized my father got to him as the Scout Leader,” I continue. “It got me thinking and I decided to do something about it.”

  I explain my twelve step program for alcoholism, my need to make amends and the foundation I’ve set up.

  Bailey intently listens until we have nothing more to say. Then he stands up, cracks open the shotgun, removes the shells and
tucks them into the front pocket of his jeans. He places the empty gun on the table.

  “I don’t trust easy,” he says. “When you hear my story, y’all understand why, but I got somethin’ in the mail, too.”

  Our gazes lock, only this time I feel a sense of mutual understanding. I can tell by the understanding in his stare, he feels it too.

  Penetrating eyes steady on mine, he nods. “Maybe we were meant to meet. Maybe it’s fate. Seems to me Lady Luck can’t always be a God damned mother fucker. Stand up, I’ll take those handcuffs off.”

  Relieved, Danny and I stand.

  First Danny, then me, Zachary removes our handcuffs, tossing them on the brown leather sofa.

  “Thank you, Zachary,” I say.

  “Call me Zach.”

  “Come into the kitchen with me,” he says. “I really need a beer.” Zach slants me a look. “Y’all bein’ an alcoholic and all, I’ll find you somethin’ else to drink.”

  We sit in the small living room, strangely comfortable after such a disturbing introduction. We’ve all received naked pictures of ourselves as young boys. Weird, for sure, but if that isn’t a bonding experience, what is?

  Danny and Zach have a beer, while I sit back and down a Coke. My throat’s dry as hell. Not surprising when Zach’s been pointing a double barrel at me. Thank you sympathetic nervous system.

  Trust issues are a bitch. André warned me helping those who have suffered abuse can be a dangerous activity. In fact, it can be downright life-threatening.

  After today, I have a visceral understanding of this truth.

  Chapter 32.

  “Hardship often prepares an ordinary person for an extraordinary destiny.”

  ― C.S. Lewis

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  “I think it’s my turn,” Zach says, after getting us all a second round of drinks.

  He begins to tell us a long story, which only has a few similarities to Danny's or my own experience. Zach knew he'd been abused. Unlike us, he'd bravely reached out to grownups and tried to get help.

  When he complained to his mother, she told him not to tell anyone. She was less worried about her son's welfare, and more concerned about the possibility their family might lose their social standing in their church. At the time, the minister advised her to do nothing, telling her, “God takes care of all sin,” and, “It is not for us to judge.”