Boy Toy (5 page)

Something to say pops into my head: "I saw you in the game against East Brook last week. Your fastball is unreal."

She leans against the wall and takes a sip of her Coke. "It's even better than when you couldn't hit it." She grins at me, and I want to kill myself for her kindness. How can I deserve that?

"That was overhand," I tell her, remembering her blistering fastball as a kid. "Underhand isn't the same."

She checks her watch. "I'm off break now, but I'll take you up on that." She heads for the entrance.

Take me up on that? On what? She saunters away—the hip sway that she hadn't perfected at thirteen is effortless now at eighteen. What the hell is she talking about?

"What do you mean?" I call after her. I start to follow her, then stop when I realize how bizarre it is to be chasing after the girl—the woman—I molested.

"I'll call you," she says, half turning to mime holding a phone to her ear, then slipping back through the automatic door and into the store. I stand there for a while, my hunger forgotten, my confusion overwhelming.

After a minute or two, I go back inside to buy a newspaper, then head home.

Mom and Dad (mostly Mom) used to get sketchy about me reading about the case in the newspaper. By the time I get home, Mom has already tossed out the newspaper; I read the story this morning, but she can't know that. I sneak my copy into my room and hide it for later. Mom calls out to me from the laundry room downstairs, where she proceeds to give me all kinds of holy hell about being suspended again. Where Dad was blasé, she's in a fury.

I promise to try harder and to avoid further suspensions, which should be easy considering that there's only another six weeks of school. Even
I've
never managed multiple suspensions in that period of time. Mom seems mollified and swishes off to bed, leaving me to fold the laundry. I could have lived my entire life a happy and fulfilled man without learning that my mother has a thong—

—push it aside—

Ah, Christ. Like Eve. I don't need this. I really don't.

In my room, I take out the newspaper and read the article:

Former Teacher Released from Jail

by Stephanie Gould, Times Staff Writer

With members of her family in attendance, Evelyn Sherman appeared before Judge Eric L. Fletch, who suspended the remaining time of her sentence and ruled that her probation would begin immediately. Sherman had served nearly five years.

Four years and ten months earlier, Fletch sentenced Sherman to serve fifteen years in the State Women's Correctional Facility. In February, Sherman's attorney, Danielle G. Cress-well, filed a motion for a reduction of her sentence. A hearing took place in March, at which time Fletch said that he would make a decision later.

Last Friday, Fletch told Sherman that, based on reports from her therapist, the prison psychologist, and guards at the prison, he felt it would be a waste of the correctional system to keep her in jail.

"
This woman has made enormous strides,"Fletch said in court today. "Leaving her behind bars serves no one's interest, and certainly not the interests of justice.
"

Sherman wept in court on Friday at the news that she would be released. She said that she is remorseful for what she has done.

"
I have learned an enormous amount in the past five years," she said, "both about myself and about the situations I failed to react to successfully. I'm grateful for this opportunity to prove myself to the community and to my friends and family again.
"

Cresswell submitted to the court letters from Dr. Judith Fraser, who has been Sherman's therapist since her arrest five years ago.

According to Cresswell, Fraser rated the odds of Sherman reoffending at zero. James B. Olsen, warden of the prison, also submitted an affidavit calling Sherman "a model prisoner," citing her work teaching illiterate inmates to read and write.

With her release, Sherman begins five years of supervised probation. Under the terms of her parole, she must register as a sex offender, complete a sex offender program, and have no un-supervised contact with children. She must also attend therapy sessions twice per week.

"
We're very grateful for the judge's compassion and that this nightmare is over and this young woman can go on with her life," Cresswell said.

Sherman was twenty-four at the time of her arrest. She will turn thirty later this year.

Gil B. Purdy, the district attorney who prosecuted Sherman, appeared in court to protest her release.

"
This woman is a sexual predator. She preys on young men. I don't see how we can let her out on the streets," Purdy told the press immediately after the hearing.

State police arrested Sherman five years ago based on allegations that she had engaged in sexual activity with a local minor male while she taught at South Brook Middle School. She was also accused of providing that same student with alcohol. Sherman initially pleaded not guilty, but later changed her plea to guilty.

Reach staff writer Stephanie Gould at stegould@ lowecotimes.com.

Remorseful? Really? I have a hard time believing that. That just doesn't sound like her. I'm tempted to call the reporter and get a first-person account of what happened in the courtroom, but she probably wouldn't even talk to me.

I carefully clip the article from the paper and throw away everything else.

At the bottom of my closet is a fire safe I bought at Staples, hidden under some gym clothes and old toys. Within is a sea of tiny plastic cases—microcassettes. A copy of every tape Dr. Kennedy has made of our sessions. Five years of my life, completely documented on tape. Not many people can say they have that.

Also in the safe is a clipping of every article from the
Lowe County Times
about Eve Sherman. I look through them for the first time in years; there haven't been many articles since she went into prison. Headlines jump out at me:

Sherman to Serve Jail Time

Sex, Lies, and Videogames

Sherman Attorney: "No Insanity Plea
"

Sex-scandal Teacher Changes Plea

Eve is out of prison. She's out. She's ... somewhere. Is she staying in the state? She can't teach anymore, so what is she doing? What about her husband? The article is a piss-poor source of information.

I lock the safe again, now including the new clipping, then cover it with its camouflage, lie back, and drift off to sleep, flickers sparking and wheeling off into the dark.

Dr. Kennedy:
My name is Dr. Kennedy. I don't know if you remember, but I saw you at the courthouse the other day. Do you remember that?

J. Mendel:
Yeah. What's your name?

Kennedy:
I just told you: Dr. Kennedy.

Mendel:
That's not what I mean. What's your first name? You know mine.

Kennedy:
My first name is Gene. Do you always want to know adults' first names?

Mendel:
I don't know.

Kennedy:
Can we talk a little bit about Mrs. Sherman?

Mendel:
No.

Kennedy:
Don't you want to know why I want to talk about her?

Mendel:
It's like the police and my parents. You want to know everything.

Kennedy:
Well, look. I want to know things, but only so that I can help you.

Mendel:
I don't need help.

Kennedy:
Do you understand what's happened to you?

Mendel:
I'm not stupid.

Kennedy:
I didn't say you were. Your grades are very good—

Mendel:
Do you have everything about me in that file?

Kennedy:
Not everything. Not the important things. I need you to tell those things to me.

Mendel:
I don't want to.

Kennedy:
Well, let's start slow. Why don't you just tell me how it started?

Mendel:
Are you going to tell everyone else? Are you going to tell my parents?

Kennedy:
Oh, is that what you're—? No. There's something called ... Do you know what doctor-patient privilege is?

Mendel:
Yeah. I saw it on TV.

Kennedy:
Well, that's what we have between us. Anything you tell me, I can't tell anyone else. Not the judge. Not your parents.

Mendel:
But you tape-record it.

Kennedy:
What?

Mendel:
You tape-record it. I saw you push the button before. Anyone can listen to what I say.

Kennedy:
The tapes are just to help me remember what you say. That's all. See this door here? See the lock? I'm the only one with the key. Your tapes will be locked up at all times. No one will get to them.

Mendel:
I want them.

Kennedy:
Excuse me?

Mendel:
I want copies. Of the tapes.

Kennedy:
That's not—

Mendel:
That's how I want it. I'll tell you everything, but I get copies of the tapes. This way, if you tell someone what I said someday and you lie, I'll have proof.

I awaken to the sounds. I hate it when this happens.

Through the ductwork that runs along the ceiling of the house, you can hear a lot at night when it's still. And, yes, that means I can hear my parents having what they call sex.

This isn't quite as creepy as it seems; I've been hearing this every once in a while as long as I can remember, though the frequency over the past few years has been nearly nonexistent. It usually doesn't keep me up, but tonight I must be on edge, every nerve ready to fire, as if someone's stalking me.

After some rustling of bedclothes and squeaking of bed-springs, there's silence until Mom starts to complain and Dad says, "I'm sorry, honey. I'm sorry," and I turn over in bed, pull the pillow around my ears, and force myself back into sleep before I can finish the thought, before I can finish thinking,
I do it better.

Later, bang! I'm up again, suddenly, as if an alarm's gone off in my skull. Clock says it's three a.m. My brain is fuzzing and buzzing. I don't even remember sleeping, but I guess I must have been. The house is quiet, still. It's like there's no one here at all. or maybe like the entire world disappeared while I was asleep, leaving nothing but a silent black void outside my bedroom door.

Through the vent, Dad snorts out a sudden burst of ragged breath that ends as soon as it began. The world is still out there.

Remorseful.

What the hell does that actually
mean,
anyway? How did she say that? Did she actually say, "I'm remorseful for what I've done"? Or did she say something vague that sort of
sounded
remorseful and the reporter just paraphrased it?

And wouldn't she say "I
regret
" instead of "I'm remorseful"? They're two different things. I mean, remorse is ... Remorse...

I kick off the covers and switch on my light. According to my online dictionary, remorse is about having a sense of guilt for something in the past. Regret is about being sorry. Two different things. It's subtle, but they
are
different. Which one did Eve claim? Did the reporter get it wrong?

And what's up with that prosecutor? I remember him—he interrogated me five years ago. He was a real dick; he was an assistant DA back then, but he thought he was hot shit. And let me tell you—he
loves
the word "predator." He used it so often when he was interrogating me that I started keeping count.

Here's what amuses me about the whole "predator" angle: Predation is a part of the natural world order. You don't get pissed at a lion for eating a gazelle; that's just what lions do. They prey. So by calling Eve a "sexual predator," aren't we saying that she's doing something that's part of the natural order? It isn't that we have to like it, any more than we have to like the idea of some poor eland bleeding to death on the veldt. But it's nature.

I have learned an enormous amount in the past five years.

Like what? What did she learn in the past five years, other than how to teach inmates how to read and how to avoid getting stabbed in the showers? How do the other prisoners treat a woman who did what she did? Is it like being a child molester? I read somewhere that child molesters are considered the lowest of the low in prison; even mass murderers hate them. Everyone is out to kill them.

Did someone try to kill her in jail? Did she have to fight to protect herself?

What did she learn?

And who was her teacher?