I say nothing, but I consider these charges.
I was an asshole when I hit my teens. That was when I began to understand that I’d been tricked. What I thought was love, was in fact abuse. Betty Jo would’ve been nine or ten years old back then.
My jaw tightens. It wasn’t that I didn’t have time for my sister, or that I was ignoring her specifically. I abandoned her because I saw myself as a monster and a pervert. I kept away from everyone in an attempt to protect others from myself.
Betty Jo stands and begins to pace, still facing me—still targeting me.
“After dad died, then you were our mother’s ‘special child’ too!” she reproaches. “It’s ‘Grant this,’ ‘Grant that.’ ‘Oh, Grant needs to marry.’ Well, I’m sick of it!”
My sister drones on and on, ceaseless in her criticism of my every fault. Her condemnation is vicious. I can’t deny how she saw myself in her childhood. I understand how things looked. Yet, her blame is misplaced.
I lean back, forcing myself to sit here and take it. I’ve suffered worse. In truth, silence comes easily. It’s been one of my main defenses.
I take a minute to study her. Renata told me our sister was one of the saddest, unhappiest people she has ever known. I finally see it. This explains why Sally Anne became Betty Jo’s friend. Naturally sympathetic, Sally Ann takes in lost dogs, cats and injured animals. The champion of those who are bullied, she’s always been able to recognize a lost and unloved soul.
I know what unloved and unlovable feels like. I’ve been there.
No wonder Renata and Sally Ann both feel sorry for my sister. Is that what they feel toward me?
I take a deep breath and shut my eyes for a moment. Our mother was too cold and withdrawn to notice anything going on with her children. In my case, I was so unbearably conscious of my own pain while growing up that I was unaware of the harm my little sister suffered in the Wilkinson household.
Of course, Betty Jo would have hidden any sign of vulnerability from me.
Hurt. Damaged. Wounded.
Wounds are strange things. Sometimes they’re clean. Put on a bit of antiseptic, cover them up with a Band-Aid, and they heal perfectly well. Yet some wounds turn putrid and need to be cut open. If you don’t let out the pus, they won’t heal. If untreated and the contagion spreads, a wound can kill.
I guess through this unrestricted purging of my sister’s hate, André is making an attempt to drain the poison before it destroys her.
“Dad liked the boys best—especially you, Grant,” Betty Jo snaps in her snide, angry voice, a nasty tone she always uses when speaking to me. “As the favorite, everything had to be done your way! No one gave a shit about me! Do you know how much I hate even just the sound of your name?”
Disgust radiates from her, lighting a spark from the embers of my fury.
My pulse rockets, molten heat burns inside. My inner rage is back in force, but in truth it never left. It’s difficult to listen to my sister blame me for everything—especially since I once constantly blamed myself.
No shame. I refuse to feel guilty anymore.
How can I be responsible? Even though I’m three years older than she is, I was just a kid back then too.
“You were always so selfish!” she snarls. “Such an asshole! You had to have dad all to yourself. You and he had ‘special time’ together. It was all about you—his oldest son. ‘Grant can shoot,’ ‘Grant can ride.’ ‘Grant is so clever.’ What about me? No one ever thought of me—except as the house slave! Any shit job, I had to do it or sometimes Alex. What did you have to do? Nothing!”
It’s the last straw.
Before I realize it I jump to my feet, pissed as hell. Chest out, chin up, my finger stabs toward her.
“Oh yeah?” I growl, my voice hoarse but clear. “You think I had it so fucking easy? Well let me tell you something Betty Jo, we did have ‘special time.’ Dad took me to his den where he abused me almost every damned day of my life. There I got to suck him off, pull him off, or get sodomized. So don’t tell me how bad you had it growing up in our family—I had problems of my own.”
Sodomized. Ha. I never once said that word. Now I’ve said it twice in one day. It’s much easier to say the second time.
Betty Jo recoils, stepping back.
The color leaves her face, her expression draws inward.
“No,” she whispers, but her eyes reflect the pits of hell. She had no idea what was going on—but some inner knowledge or awareness takes away the blinkers.
I can almost hear something ‘click’ in her mind. The puzzle pieces, scraps of her childhood memories are all beginning to fit together. She knows I’m telling the truth.
No one says a single thing.
The utter quiet in the room makes my ears ring.
Her eyes soften as she regards me, her lips press together as if she’s in pain. Usually, Betty Jo looks at me with hate, disgust, or disdain. In our interactions she’s underhanded, passive aggressive, outright aggressive or vindictive. I’m equipped to deal with her bitchiness.
Yet, up till now I don’t think I’ve ever seen this… compassion in her face. I’m unprepared for the ravaging storm of emotions it stirs.
How do I respond to that?
Chapter 60.
“A sister is like a mirror in which you can see a part of yourself reflected.”
— Joan Walsh Anglund
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
“Alex repeatedly said our dad was a bastard,” she murmurs quietly. She stares hard at Alex. “You always prattled on about how you were going to kill our father.”
He shrugs. “I hated him.”
Something primal in her eyes flares to life. “I never wanted to kill my dad. I never hated him! I just wanted him to love me, but he never loved me!” she gasps, her voice as heartbreaking as an abandoned child. “You can understand that, can’t you?”
I nod, silenced by the agony in her gaze.
“I read Alex’s Journal, I studied his absurd plan for murder,” she says, her voice very low. “But the idea grew on me. I took the scopolamine he’d bought. I tried it on myself, then later I tried it on Alex.”
“What?” Alex interjects.
She laughs, a muted, unnatural chuckle. “You didn’t notice, Alex. You’d been drinking, but that scopolamine acted exactly like truth serum. The things you told me you’d usually never say.” She shakes her head with disgust. “Mostly stupid ‘I love her’ details about your wife. Anyway, I decided I’d try it on dad the day of his party, on his fiftieth birthday.”
Betty Jo stares at us with empty eyes. Her mind is focused elsewhere, looking at something, somewhere in her past. “He was so drunk. I put the drug in his drink. About a half an hour later, when he got up to go to the toilet, I guided him out on to the balcony.”
She bites her lip, her brows drawn down in concentration. “I just wanted to know why I meant nothing to him! I needed to know. So, I asked…” she takes a deep breath, “I asked him why he didn’t love me. Why wasn’t I good enough?”
Unshed tears shine in my sister’s eyes—I’ve never seen her so vulnerable. For a moment I close my own eyes, shutting out her intimate, unspeakable pain. When I open them again, it’s like witnessing someone’s last moments as they pass away. Something inside of my sister is dying.
I don’t want to watch, but I can’t look away.
“Do you know what dad did?” she asks, her voice high-pitched with emotion. “He laughed! He laughed at me! Then he said the most terrible thing.” She breaths in and out, in short and shallow breaths, her expression is a dark well of sadness.
“He said—” she pauses as though she can’t repeat the words, “My father said to me, ‘Why would I be interested in a silly little cunt like you?’”
Her chin lifts suddenly, her eyes flash. “He only loved his boys. I was so angry! I’ve always loved him—I worshiped him, but I hated him for that! It happened so fast—I didn’t even think. I grabbed him by his shirt collar an
d shoved him over the edge. It was easy. I killed him… I killed my father. But he called me a cunt. A cunt! He never loved me. He never loved me just because I’m just a girl!”
Jesus H. Christ. Betty Jo murdered our father.
I can’t believe it. The astonishment I feel plays over my brother’s face, while shock and pity registers in his eyes.
To my absolute horror, although I’ve never once seen her cry—Betty Jo suddenly bursts into tears. My sister doesn’t cry like a grown woman. Instead she weeps with shattered innocence—keening like a child who suddenly finds themselves in unfamiliar surroundings, completely alone… utterly lost.
My protective instincts kick in. For the first time in my life I want to comfort my sister, but I hold back. Why would she accept comfort from me? It’s far too late for that.
Alex takes her in his arms, pats her on the back awkwardly. I raise my eyes to my brother, we’re both painfully aware of her anguish. Exposed, right to her soul, I feel as though I’m intruding on my sister’s private, hidden self.
Betty Jo’s tears become a wail of grief, a long, high-pitched cry. What a testament to the tragic life of a poor little rich girl. My sister, Betty Jo. Stunningly good-looking, perfectly dressed, she’s a beautiful, wealthy young woman who appears to have had it all.
If people only knew.
Her soul starved for love, what chance did she have?
Distraught, she spins away from Alex and flees, racing from the room. Her heels echo on the marble tiles of the front entry.
Alex starts to follow her, but André steps out in front of him, stopping him with a touch from his hand. We hear the sound of the front door opening and closing.
Betty Jo is gone.
Our sister murdered our father.
“Leave her to me, if you please,” André says calmly. “Much good has been achieved here this day, I thank you.” He bows slightly. “For now, entrust her to my care s'il vous plaît.”
He turns on his heel and strides purposefully out of the room, following in Betty Jo’s wake.
Stunned, I no longer view my sister as the sharp-tongued, nasty bitch I’ve known all of my life. Not anymore. I can’t.
Now I can’t help but feel sorry for the unwanted, unloved child.
Betty Jo murdered our father. But what should we do now?
Chapter 61.
“I have found that the process of discovering who I really am begins with knowing who I really don't want to be.”
― Alcoholics Anonymous
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
Alex and I are at a total loss, with no clue of what to do. Fuck, I feel absolutely shredded, yet I'm also oddly supercharged, full of nervous energy. I repeatedly clench and release my fists, while my jaw is so tight that it aches.
Alex made a lengthy, rambling and detailed journal of his plans to kill our father. He planned to push him to his death, but mostly this was an ongoing fantasy. Alex even went so far as to buy Scopolamine, the hypnotic drug he found out about while watching CSI.
In the end, however, my brother never got up the nerve to actually kill the man.
Betty Jo knew all about these plans, probably initially as Alex would have gotten drunk or stoned and told her, like he told both me and Stanley Huber. As Betty Jo worked with Alex, she had access to his journals and the Scopolamine.
Our sister claims she didn’t intend to kill our father, and yet, she did. Will she confess to her crime?
The police will never believe it.
I can’t sit still, so I pace. Adrenaline thrums through my veins. I need to do something—but what? I feel as though I could crawl right out of my skin.
Neither of us speak.
What is there to say?
I keep seeing the look of wretched devastation carved into Betty Jo’s face. The words my father said to her echo in my mind. ‘Why would I be interested in a silly little cunt like you?’
When Alex’s wife and baby return home, I take off like a scalded cat. In my current funk, I can barely tolerate my brother. Jumping into my car, I drive aimlessly, trying to make a decision. What should I do now?
Maybe a twenty mile run would overcome my anguish and rage? If I went to a redneck bar, I could pick a fight with someone. Or shall I break down and get shit-faced drunk?
The ‘getting drunk’ option is mighty tempting, right now. There’s way too much on my mind. My brain is fried. I need oblivion, but I’m too restless and wired to sleep. My nostrils flare with fury. I’m so ready for a fight.
My sister murdered my father. It should have been me!
It’s suppertime, but I’m not hungry in the least. What I crave is the comfort that comes from swallowing a glass of Scotch—the taste, the soothing burn, the sensation of relief it provides. My mouth waters as I remember the delicious, soul numbing oblivion that comes out of a bottle.
Why can’t I have just one drink?
When faced with temptation I’m supposed to call my AA sponsor. Bobby would remind me of the First Step—that I am powerless over alcohol. He’d tell me I’m doing the right thing by seeking help, and I must stay away from the first drink. Alcoholics never stop at just one.
The trick is not to start.
If I called him, my sponsor would drop everything and arrange for us to meet immediately. But what could I say to him? How could I explain?
I can hear myself now, Bobby, I have this problem. As kids, my baby brother and I were sexually abused for years by our father. The bastard died through an accident three years ago. Recently, the police discovered our father had actually been murdered. I thought it was the result of his involvement with a powerful pedophile cabal. Unfortunately, the police arrested my brother for the crime. Alex is innocent, despite all the evidence that points to him having committed murder.
Oh, I should mention that originally, I was the one arrested for our father's murder, but the police couldn't make the charges stick. Then, more recently, I was framed for assassinating a cop. I was damn lucky whoever framed me was sloppy about it and screwed up. I’m not sure who did it, or if they’re still out to get me.
Sure, those things might be enough to justify anyone taking a stiff drink… or maybe twenty, but that's not all. Tonight, practically out of nowhere, I discovered that our father was actually killed by our sister. Now that we know Betty Jo committed the crime, we have no clue if she'll admit it to the police. Will she let Alex take the fall? I’d ask her, but she’s disappeared and won’t answer her phone.
Why did she kill our father, you ask? It seems the asshole ignored the poor girl all of her life because she was born with a vagina—he preferred penises, you see. The dipshit foolishly called her a ‘silly little cunt.’ I guess that was the last straw. So, Betty Jo killed him, which is exactly what he deserved.
You ask if I ever did anything to help my little brother or sister while we were growing up? No, sorry, I was far too self-absorbed. In fact, although I loved my brother, I was selfish enough to be relieved to have an occasional break from constant molestation. And as for my younger sister, I never even liked her. Ignored by everyone in the family, she grew up to be a hateful bitch. I wasn’t mean to her, but I wasn’t nice to her, either.
The cruelty she’s suffered makes me furious.
Meanwhile, Betty Jo left with my counselor whom—I found out tonight—appears to be some sort of sex addict. I discovered this when discussing sodomy, a long term sexual fantasy and mortal sin I’ve never acted upon—well at least not consensually or as an adult, to date.
How exactly did I find out? Oh, my fiancée told me my counselor enjoyed anal sex with her. It turns out André Chevalier, my therapist, my mentor, my trusted and loyal friend, had sex with my fiancée, my sister, and he may have even wanted to have sex with me. With the history I have with my father, you can imagine how this is disturbing.
To add to this incredibly large, steaming pile of shit, I walked out on my fiancée this evening, and she threatened not to be there when I return
ed. Losing her would finish me completely. Will I arrive home to an empty house?
It’s all too much.
Too much for my overwhelmed brain and aching heart to process.
I can’t say any of this to my AA sponsor. If I did, he’d probably reply, ‘The hell you say? Damn buddy, that’s some fucked up shit. Let me pour you a drink. Son of a bitch, I need one too!’
I’m so furious about everything that’s happened, starting with our cluster fuck of a father. Tension burns in my body; my guts are twisted into a heated knot.
Right now, I want to kill someone, or bring my father back to life so I can kill him again. Either that, or I need to get rip roaring drunk.
I can’t decide what to do.
Pressure builds in my head, gathering like a storm. Vivid impressions and flashes of memories batter my thoughts—they’re relentless as waves upon the shore.
So many fucking memories.
I can hear Betty Jo’s nine-year-old voice echo in my mind as Alex and I go to the shooting range with our father. “Can I come too? Please? Please, please, daddy?” she begs pathetically. Life has taught her she’ll be excluded again.
“Next time,” our father says.
“Promise?” she asks.
“I promise,” he lies effortlessly, as he closes the door behind us, shutting her up. Shutting her out. Betty Jo was never more than a nuisance to him.
The image shifts as time passes. I see a lonely child waiting at the front door, full of excitement, longing to be included. The expression on my sister’s face is full of hope, her eyes shine with anticipation. This time her dad will pay attention to her. This time he’ll love her too. Then, shoulders slumped, the crushed look when our father breaks his promise and her innocent heart again.
How could I forget this? How did I not see what was happening?
No wonder my sister hates me. The part of me that feels responsible, hates myself. Back then, as a child I felt special. I wanted to be alone with my father. I wanted him to give his love and attention only to me.
Monster! Pervert!
Somehow, I find myself pulling into the lot at Beverage Depot. It’s as if my Cadillac drove itself here. I park the car, sit blankly for a few moments, and then read the notice of daily deals. I can hardly believe my eyes.