There were times when Mrs. S____ broke off reading a Bible verse as if she’d lost her place or hadn’t been paying attention to her own words. Seeing us gazing at her blankly she would say, “What are you all gaping at? Haven’t your mommas at least taught you that it’s rude to stare?”
Something mocking in the word mommas. Like you might say the word monkeys. It was known that Mrs. S____ did not have children herself for she’d allowed us to know that on her first day teaching Sunday school.
“How-ard! What do you say?”
When Mrs. S____ asked Bible questions we were expected to raise our hands to answer. But then Mrs. S____ would look past the bright eager children waving their hands to single out those others, like me, hunched in our seats trying not to be noticed.
It was like being slapped. Like being kicked.
I would mumble a reply, stammering and feeling my face burn.
“Speak up, How-ard! You are one of the older students in this Sunday school class and should be a model for the others.”
So mocked, I could not speak at all. My heart beat hard and furious against my ribs like a fist wanting to hurt.
Mrs. S____ was always warning us she would speak to Reverend Boxall about us. The minister of our church was a stern-faced man older than my father who looked in upon the Sunday school class from time to time, but did not stay more than a minute.
Nights before Sunday school, I could not easily sleep. Already I would begin to worry, Mrs. S____ would single me out for the laughter of the others which had grown more scornful over the months so that even the younger children who should have been afraid of me were not.
Not that I would have hurt a younger child. A smaller child. But I was big, and might (almost) hurt someone by accident, shoving or grabbing with my strong hands if one of them got in my way, or looked at me the wrong way, when no adult was around to see.
One night trying not to sleep because I was fearful of closing my eyes yet I must have fallen asleep for when a daddy longlegs walked over my face brushing against my lips causing me to wake with a start my eyes flew open and I saw that it was Mrs. S____ who’d trailed her fingertips over my face … How-ard. How-ard Heike! How handsome we are.
To my astonishment I saw Mrs. S____’s jeering face above me. For a moment I did not know where I was—in my bed at home, or in my desk at the Sunday school. I wondered at the unnaturalness of an adult woman who teased and ridiculed a child of eleven.
Horrible to me how Mrs. S____ would come to my desk and lean over me to see where my Bible was opened, as if (maybe) I was surreptitiously reading in the Old Testament and not the New (which we were supposed to be reading). In a mockery of motherly solicitude the woman would lean close so that I had no choice but to inhale her smell, a cloyingly-sweet talcum powder or perfume; daringly, Mrs. S____ would touch my shoulder, the nape of my neck, stroke my side even as she kept up a barrage of nervous chatter no one could follow. It was shocking to me that, in the classroom, where those children seated closest to me could surely see, our teacher would slip her hand into my stiff-starched shirt, to “tickle” me to attention, in a pretense of punishing me for not volunteering to speak or answer her questions.
Or maybe this had not yet happened? Yet, I understood that it would happen, soon.
And in the night, my hands would move of their own volition to touch myself in ways that were forbidden. And Mrs. S____ laughed at me and pushed at my hands when I tried to keep them away, saying Oh How-ard aren’t you a bad boy, a very bad boy, we know what a bad boy you are How-ard don’t pretend.
And next morning in our Sunday school classroom, as if it was still my dream: “How-ard is very quiet today! ‘Still waters run deep.’”
And, “How-ard has his secrets, eh? For shame!”
Shaking her finger at me, laughing. As others in the class stared at me not knowing if they should laugh with her, or recoil in disgust.
I did feel shamed. Stricken with shame like a paralysis.
As if the woman could know what it was to be me.
Meekly I would lower my head. Eyes cast down but (in fact) fixed upon Mrs. S____’s legs which were tight-encased in nylon stockings; yet, in warm weather, seemingly bare—or so they appeared to me, for I could look nowhere else. And her small, fattish feet in “stylish” shoes.
If I dared to lift my eyes I would likely see tiny beads of sweat on Mrs. S____’s face. And the smile faded as in a face you have caught unprepared to be looked at.
“How-ard? What are you looking at so hard? Has your mother never told you that staring is rude?”
Adding, “Especially one who bears the ‘sign of the beast’ on his face for all to see.”
But laughing then, to show that she did not really mean this, but was only teasing.
In warm weather in the airless interior of the Sunday school classroom you might see half-moons of dampness beneath Mrs. S____’s arms. And sometimes when Mrs. S____ turned her back you could see (without wishing to see) dampness in the back of her dress, and a faint crease in her buttocks where the dress was caught. (I had learned the coarse word buttocks and liked to say it to myself. It would be years before I would realize that men could have buttocks too.) Her bosom was heavy and soft-seeming like foam-rubber. Around her neck Mrs. S____ wore a gold cross on a thin gold chain that moved and shone with her breathing.
When at last the Bible lesson was over it would be nearing ten o’clock. The bells of the church would be ringing so loudly, I would want to clamp my hands over my ears. Mrs. S____ would dismiss us, that we might hurry to join our families for the service. But Mrs. S____ would sometimes keep me behind, claiming that she needed a “big, husky boy” to help her push desks back against the walls. When she smiled at me the pink wet tip of her tongue appeared between her bright-crimson lips.
I stammered that I had to leave, deeply ashamed. For in the pit of my stomach there was a sharp sensation, and in the area between my legs that stirred and was painfully tight inside my underwear. Through the remainder of the day the strong, sharp smell of Mrs. S____ would remain with me, like a thick sweet smoke that had soaked into my clothes and my hair, and the sensation between my legs was even slower to fade.
Until that night in my bed, the sensation swept back upon me, and Mrs. S____ pushed my hands where I did not want them to go, but could not prevent.
Yet: I did not tell my parents any of this—the Sunday school teacher’s teasing. I did not tell my parents that Mrs. S____ treated me differently from the way she treated the others, for it seemed to me that Mrs. S____ was disgusted with me because of the birthmark on my face, that she could not help seeing, and blamed me for.
I did not actually think that I did not deserve being teased. When a bad thing happened to me, to hurt or injure me, or when I was sick, even if others were sick, with a stomach flu for instance, or a bad hacking cough, it would seem to me that this was a punishment (from God?) that I deserved. When I was not punished, I was waiting to be punished. For I did not feel good about myself. I could not think that Jesus had really died for me.
My parents did not like to be touched, I think. And so, I did not like to be touched because it was not right to be touched. If you deserve to be touched, then your parents would touch you. But if not, not.
In school, children sometimes stared at me. Even older children, who should not have been fearful of me. Yet they stood apart from me, as if wondering at the mark on my face, whether they were safe to make fun of it, or better not.
I did not ever back away from any confrontation. I was not “aggressive”—but I did not back away. I had been known to shove boys back against a wall, or a fence—if they fell, I did not take mercy on them but might stand over them hitting with my fists, kicking. Because I was likely to be “slow” in class (sometimes) did not mean that I was “slow” in other ways. A fist can move fast of its own volition, the way a dog snarls and bites, or a cat scratches, without needing to think. Soon then, by middle school the other children kn
ew to keep their distance from me, and to respect me, for there was a look in my face they learned not to challenge.
Older girls, in the high school, did not seem to be afraid of me so much. They would sometimes smile at me, and talk with me in the 7-Eleven where we went after school, laughing when I blushed for I was shy in their presence, and did not know how to speak without stammering. It was surprising to them (they claimed) that I was only in middle school with such little boys.
But I could not laugh with them, I did not understand their jokes. And so they were disappointed with me, I think.
Not only other children, and strangers, but my parents too would sometimes stare at me without seeming to know who I was. Especially when I began to grow taller, at the age of twelve.
If I came into a room not watching where I was headed, and collided with a chair, for instance in the kitchen, my mother would give a little cry and flinch from me, as if she had not been prepared for such a big boy, or rather for me. Oh—Howie! It’s you …
In her face an expression of relief as if she had expected someone else and not me. A nervous smile.
Beside my father who was a tall heavyset man, I did not look so unusual. But beside my mother, who was a small woman, and would one day barely come to my shoulder, I did seem unusual, out of place in the family. The kind of boy who, if a chair was going to break, would be the one to break the chair by just sitting in it.
Though my mother tried to “discipline” me. Especially when we were together at church. For that was what a good mother should try to do, she believed.
Howard, don’t wriggle! You are in the presence of the Lord.
Howard, don’t slouch! You are in the presence of the Lord.
Howard, you must not look around at girls! They can see you, and they can read your thoughts.
And never forget—you are in the presence of the Lord.
That last summer of Sunday school flies buzzed overhead striking themselves against the ceiling with little pings that captured my attention. From the church came the sound of the choir practicing a hymn—“A Mighty Fortress Is Our Lord.”
“How-ard! Tell us the story of …”
A shiver would run through me, of dread and excitement. For the Bible stories which we had to memorize were familiar to me as if they had happened in my own life—Moses in the bulrushes, Moses and the burning bush, Samson in the temple, Daniel in the lions’ den, Jesus as a boy, Jesus and John the Baptist, Jesus tempted by Satan, Jesus dividing the fishes and the loaves, Jesus betrayed by Judas, Jesus crucified and Jesus resurrected—yet I could not retell them easily, or could not retell them with Mrs. S____ staring at my mouth with her strange twist of a smile.
I tried to recount the story of Jesus betrayed by Judas, which was the story Mrs. S____ had requested, except that my voice was cracked and faltering, and after a while it ceased altogether, and Mrs. S____ shrugged and laughed and called upon another student to continue, as if it had meant nothing to her anyway, and that nor was she surprised at my poor performance. Leaving me sweating and shamed and grinding my back teeth.
This last time, Mrs. S____ dismissed the class early but asked me to remain behind so that I could help her return our desks to their original positions, she said. Why the desks were moved about, and moved back, scraping against the floor, was never clear to me. But I did as I was instructed for it seemed easier and when I was pushing desks, I did not have to face Mrs. S____ and might even have my back to her.
There was a special report between us Mrs. S____ said. I did not know what Mrs. S____ meant by a special report but I did not inquire.
That day, Mrs. S____ was wearing a yellow-stripe dress like a sundress with a sash that tied behind her back, like a young girl might wear. And a neckline that dipped down, farther than any neckline my mother might wear. I tried not to look at Mrs. S____’s chest—bosom—but my eyes kept moving in that direction like marbles rolling along an uneven table.
Mrs. S____ saw me looking, I think. She was fanning her heated face with a Bible pamphlet. Asking me if I had a girlfriend?—and if I “knew” about girls?—and to this, I could think of no reply. Questions Mrs. S____ asked me about my family I could not answer either. If my father and mother were “happily married”—I had no idea, the very thought of considering such a thing made me feel agitated, as I would have felt if someone had asked me how much money my father made, or if my parents loved me.
And then as if by accident Mrs. S____ touched me—drew her fingers along the nape of my neck, to make me shiver; and brushed my stiff, thick hair back from my forehead, where it grew low. With a little laugh she discovered a button on my shirt that had become unbuttoned. And leaning into me, breathing onto my face, as if by chance she seemed to lean too far, and lost her balance, and lightly brushed the back of her hand against my groin where my trousers had become tight like a vise.
And when I pulled away she laughed sharply and said, “Howard. There is the ‘sign of the beast’ right there on your cheek. You can’t hide that.”
A deep shame passed into my soul. Like mold in a wall, that will rot and fester and never be made right unless torn open and exposed to the air.
All this while church bells were ringing in the belfry overhead. Crazy-loud ringing, like jeering laughter. With my head lowered I pushed the woman away, blind and furious. Butting against her belly, all but cracking her ribs with the force of my need to get away from her before something happened between us, this special report Mrs. S____ had prophesized.
The woman cried out in sudden fear—“What are you doing! No”—falling backward, clutching at a table, only just able to prevent herself from being thrown to the floor, hard. Her breath came ragged and panting and I did not glance back at her hurtling myself at the door like a wild creature that has gotten trapped in an enclosure, and will kill to get free.
It would be the last time I attended Sunday school. If my soul was damned to Hell, I did not care.
And I did not go to church services that morning, either.
Ran away, out behind the churchyard. Down a steep hill, into a ravine. Made my way wading and splashing in a shallow creek, three miles to home and when I got there sweating, disheveled and dirty, exhausted like an animal, sank into sleep in a storage shed where no one would find me until I wanted to be found.
And later when my parents did discover me, like an animal eating ravenously out of the refrigerator, they looked at me in disgust and disdain. Out of such disgust with their son, they did not even ask me what had happened or where I had been instead of meeting them for church. They did not scold or accuse but allowed me to slink off, in shame.
Maybe seeing something in my face like a fist, they knew not to provoke.
Those days of waiting for Mrs. S____ to tell on me.
To tell my parents of my behavior, or Reverend Boxall who was our minister.
My father would be obliged to punish me. Discipline. No matter his disgust he would call me to him, and strike my face once, twice. His hand might be open, or closed. The blow might be hard, or glancing. An opened hand, a slap, more insulting somehow than a fist, as if I did not even merit such a blow but rather a slap such as you would give to a young child, or a girl. And he would say—“The woman told us what you did to her.”
But that did not happen. Though I waited for my father to call me to him, it did not happen. Mrs. S____ did not report me!
And now there came over me a sense of helplessness and rage, that the woman’s power was greater over me in not speaking of what had passed between us than if she had. For now the incident, Mrs. S____ touching me as she had, and my shoving her, touching her, would remain secret between us.
When I was alone I could not keep Mrs. S____ out of my thoughts. How-ard! Hel-lo. Are you—shaving? The mocking singsong voice, the touch of her fingertips like a daddy longlegs brushing against my face. It was hellish to me, to lie in my bed unable to sleep, sweating and twitching and failing to keep my rough hands from myself despite the s
hame of it, that I believed it to be hurtful to me. And so my eyelids drooped during the day, I was not able to focus my thoughts, or walk steadily …
“Howard, what is wrong with you.”
In exasperation and wariness my mother addressed me. She had ceased calling me Howie—now, no one called me Howie. In the kitchen coming up beside me where I was staring out the window when I believed I was alone, my mother had seemed, almost, to be touching me, or about to touch me, and though she did not touch me it seemed that I felt her touch—almost …
Wrenching myself away from her, feeling a stab of fury, repugnance like a dog that has been surprised, baring its teeth to snarl, bite.
Staring at each other, then. The one poised to attack with his fists, the other poised to flee screaming.
Of course, that did not happen. I would not ever have raised a fist to my mother.
But shamed then, and stammering in embarrassment Sorry sorry Ma.
Overhearing, later—There is something wrong with him. Howard.
Her voice dropping, near-inaudible—Scares me, he is so angry …
Or did Ma say—Scares me, he is so ugly.
Vaguely it was said among the relatives that I had become too big for Sunday school, that was the reason that I no longer attended. Yet, my parents insisted that I continue to attend church services with them each Sunday morning out of a fear that I would go to Hell or (maybe) out of pride, that their neighbors and relatives would see that I no longer attended church, like a heathen or a pagan, and this would reflect badly upon them.
In a pew near the rear of the church we sat, with a scattering of Heike relatives and my mother’s older sisters and an elderly uncle. Always I was made to sit between Ma and Pa like a small child who might have to be disciplined if he squirms or yawns in church or cranes his head to look around.