Julia's Chocolates (16 page)

After about three hours of sleep, I went on my paper route, passed Dean Garrett’s home, acknowledged I missed Paul Bunyan, helped out on Aunt Lydia’s farm, then went early to the library.

At exactly 1:00, Shawn and Carrie Lynn showed up, Shawn with his backpack, Carrie Lynn with her dirty blanket, which she still sometimes pulled over her head. They showed up the next day after that and the next. Every day for an hour, despite The Vulture’s withering looks, Shawn and Carrie Lynn and I would read together.

We read fairy tales, although Shawn pretended that he thought they were silly. We read books on earthquakes and hurricanes and sports figures. We read books on rocks and minerals, the weather, and life on an Oregon Trail wagon train. We read books about the stars and evolution and dragons and boys who got into trouble in school. We read everything.

And I had the kids read to me.

Within a couple of weeks Shawn had made enormous progress on his reading, and Carrie Lynn knew basic words. I could get her to read out of a book, but she still wouldn’t speak to me.

One afternoon I asked Shawn what was inside the backpack he always carried. Inside was a beaten-up water bottle. An apple. A stained T-shirt, a sweatshirt for him, a sweater and skirt for Carrie Lynn. The clothes I had seen before. They were all dirty. Even the backpack smelled.

I remembered that smell, too well. It made me want to cry.

I knew from my own pathetic experience that the state would not take children away from their parents because they looked tired and dirty, but I didn’t have to stand by and do nothing. So I started smuggling in food for them each day: apples from Aunt Lydia’s trees, hard-boiled eggs with a little container of salt, two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for each of them, two bottles of juice, and, their favorite, my chocolates. I always snuck a few to them while we read, and their sweet, tired, worried-looking faces lit up.

I got information on their lives in bits and pieces when I asked a few well-chosen questions. “You and Carrie Lynn look tired today, Shawn. Did you go to sleep late last night?”

He shrugged. “My mom’s friends wouldn’t go to sleep. They were up all night.”

Or I would ask, “Shawn, what did you and Carrie Lynn do after Story Hour yesterday?”

“Not much. My mother was gone, so Carrie Lynn and I stayed at the apartment, and then when Bingham came over we went to the park and swang on the swings.”

“What time did you go home?”

“I don’t know. It was dark. No one else was in the park. Carrie Lynn got cold even with her blanket on her shoulders. Can we read about airplanes now?”

“Who’s Bingham?”

“That’s my mother’s friend. Can we read about airplanes, please?” His eyes would sometimes get that worried look, and Carrie Lynn would make these sad hiccupping sounds, so we would read.

But his mother’s friend’s name would change regularly, and he couldn’t tell me much about the friends. “My mom says I’m not supposed to talk to her friends. She says they don’t want to be bothered by a brat.”

Shawn didn’t say it with any resentment, nor did he seem to think that “brat” was a negative name. Just a fact.

On Mondays I noticed that Shawn and Carrie Lynn were especially hungry, so I started packing them bigger sacks of food for their backpack for the weekend. On Monday I also brought extra food. I bought them two new toothbrushes and a comb-and-brush set, and shampoo.

“It took me two hours to get the tangles out of Carrie Lynn’s hair,” Shawn told me the next day. “But look how good it looks now.”

“Beautiful,” I choked, thinking of Shawn brushing out Carrie Lynn’s hair for two hours. “Beautiful.”

“W
hat happened to your arm, buddy?” I asked Shawn. Carrie Lynn whimpered, held Shawn’s hand with one hand and with the other pulled her blanket over her head. Shawn looked straight ahead. “Let’s just read,” he said, pulling away and sitting down on the floor. Purple and blue bruises lined his right arm. Carrie Lynn crawled over to sit in his lap, the blanket still on her head.

“Can I see your back?” I asked and then lifted his shirt before he could say no. I did the same with Carrie Lynn’s shirt, then I quickly started reading a book, Shawn and Carrie Lynn cuddled up to me. I felt ill. Their backs were spotted with new bruises.

I called Children’s Services after they left. They were very polite, said they would send someone out, noted that other people had also called about the children.

On the third day after that incident, the kids didn’t show up for Story Hour, nor did they show on the fourth or fifth day.

On the sixth day, when I was thinking that maybe Children’s Services had stepped up to the plate and done something, I looked out my window and saw Shawn and Carrie Lynn running for the library, Carrie Lynn’s blanket swinging behind her.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief, greeting them at the door, ignoring the glower of Ms. Cutter.

I welcomed them back to Story Time, even though I was surprised. I had assumed that they had been taken away from their mother. When I was sure that Ms. Cutter was back at work, I gave Shawn and Carrie Lynn the lunch I had brought them just in case they came.

They tore into the tuna sandwiches. They ate apples and bananas and yogurt and chips, and then they popped the chocolate truffles I’d made into their mouths. Carrie Lynn was positively scrawny. She sat as close to Shawn as she could without being right on his lap.

“My mom is real mad at you,” he said, whispering, right in the middle of the story.

“Why?”

But of course I knew why.

“She said you called the police. The police came over to my house the other night and looked at me and at my bruises and they told her to shape up. She told them I got the bruises when I got in a fight with my cousins, but I ain’t got no cousins, but she told me to say it anyhow.”

“So did you say it?”

Shawn looked like he was about to cry. “I had to. Barber was there.”

“Barber?”

“One of my mother’s friends.”

Carrie Lynn pulled her blanket over her head.

“Barber is really big, and he yells at us a lot, and he told me if I didn’t say it that he would hurt my mother.”

I kneaded the muscles in my neck. Shawn and Carrie Lynn were living my childhood all over again.

“I’m sorry, Shawn and Carrie Lynn.” I hugged Carrie Lynn to me. She still didn’t talk much, but at least she let me hug her.

“Can we read about earthquakes again, Miss Bennett?” Shawn asked, wiping away tears with both hands.

I nodded yes and grabbed a couple of earthquake books, vowing to call Children’s Services as soon as I left this dark tomb of a library with its shaded windows and bleak children’s area.

I called, told them what Shawn told me. “We understand your concerns, Ms. Bennett, but these children are not at risk for bodily harm. Parents have a right to discipline their children.”

“But their mother is disciplining her children with bruises.”

“There weren’t that many bruises, according to our social worker. We appreciate your call, but there’s nothing we’ll be doing in this case until a time should come where it appears the children are in danger.”

“But what did your social worker tell you about their appearance? Their clothes? How dirty they are?”

“Ms. Bennett, we don’t take children out of their parents’ home when their clothes are dirty. Surely you know that? I have another call now—I know you understand.”
Click
.

“Under the light of the moon is the best time to make chocolate,” Aunt Lydia told me that night. It was about ten o’clock at night, and elbow to elbow we were whipping up a batch of Chocolate Cream Puffs for Rosita and Jacqueline, who had the flu. “I’m blowing snot out of my nose every hour by the gallon, and Jacqueline’s got diarrhea, diarrhea, diarrhea,” Rosita yelled at me over the phone when I called to check up on her. “We’re sick as vomiting dogs.”

We had earlier made Mocha Velvet Cream Pots for Marie, who was married to Dave, Stash’s foreman and right hand man for “the Biz.” Marie had lost her ninety-two-year-old mother the week before.

I wondered who else in town we could cook for. I was so upset about Shawn and Carrie Lynn I thought I might cook all night.

“When you’re under the light of the moon, you should think. Think, think, think, Julia!” Aunt Lydia said, her braids, all seven of them, swinging around her shoulders as she heated the egg yolks and sugar. “Some people think moonlight is a splendiferous time to get romantic. They obviously have not fully evolved. When moonlight touches you, it’s time for a woman to sit back and think, really think, about her life.”

I looked right up into the face of the moon, bold and bright and sending out rays of light in four different directions like a cross.

I added cocoa and flour to melted butter. I didn’t particularly feel like thinking about my life. Sometimes you just want to put all of your problems and worries and fears in a box and put that box deep inside yourself and shut the lid for a while, if only to get a little peace before the lid flies off and hits you in the face with another problem.

“See, love? Moonshine is lucky,” Lydia said. “The moon is reflecting the sun. The sun is hidden. The moon isn’t. It’s just there. Right there. The light around it is asking you to put a light on your own life.”

I knew what was coming. “So, Aunt Lydia, what is the moonlight telling you? What are you really, really thinking about?”

Aunt Lydia paused, then stopped and stared at me. “I’m really thinking about you.”

I tried to laugh, but it came out like a tight wheeze instead. “I thought the moonlight was supposed to make women think about their own lives, not others’.”

“You
are
my life, sugar.” For once her voice was quiet. “I hope you can forgive me.”

My hands stilled. “Forgive you?”

“Yes, forgive me.”

“Aunt Lydia, what in the world do you need me to forgive you for?”

“For not kidnapping you.” She flipped her braids over her shoulder, then melted more butter for the icing of the cream puffs.

I would have laughed, but she said it so seriously, I didn’t.

“I should have come for you when you were a child.”

“But you did.” My voice sounded strangled. I didn’t want to think about my childhood in Aunt Lydia’s kitchen while we were making Chocolate Cream Puffs.

“I should have come and got you and kept you for good.” She whacked her spoon on the edge of the pan four times.
Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack.

“You tried that,” I choked out. I was thirty-four years old. Surely I was over this?

“I know I did. Damn bitch!” Lydia yelled, “Damn bitch” into the sky, then swiped a hand over her face. Lydia had come and gotten me on four different occasions unannounced and brought me to the farm. Within days the police were there, taking me back to my mother, talking to Aunt Lydia about custody, kidnapping, etc. Even my cries and pleadings made no difference back then.

“I shoulda gone to Australia with you.”

I stopped stirring the chocolate. Australia. Now that would have been nice. Kangaroos and the coral reef and clean beaches. And no boyfriends.

I pictured myself rescuing Shawn and Carrie Lynn and living in Melbourne with them. It might be my only recourse.

“At least she let me come and see you for the summer.”

“Damn bitch!” Aunt Lydia boomed again. “Your mother moved you around so much, I couldn’t always keep track of you. She knew I always wanted to know how you were, but it would be weeks or months before she’d call me.”

My heart clenched. The times in my life when I didn’t have Aunt Lydia in it, when I wasn’t getting calls from her, or gifts, or letters, had always been the worst.

It was during one of those times that Zeke, a boyfriend of my mother’s would come after me every day once my mother left for work. She would kiss him passionately in front of me, smile, tell me to stay out of Zeke’s way, and as soon as she left, Zeke would turn toward me.

It was innocent at first, and I was happy to have the attention. I thought he was kind. He brushed my hair one day, braided it the next, suggested we take a bath together, then he would massage my back later in the evening. One night his hands wandered everywhere. He told me he was massaging my whole body, that I was just to relax and enjoy it. I couldn’t have been more than nine.

The massage on my back felt good; then he started playing with my breasts, which were growing even then. I felt sick. I tried to pull away, but he pushed me back down. The next day I told him I didn’t want a massage. I landed facedown on the bed anyhow, one hand pinning me down as the other roamed all over my body and into places a man’s hand should never be on a child.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t tell my mother because I knew she would blame me. Plus, Zeke told me if I complained, he would hurt my mother.

There was no one else to tell. Two decades ago, practically no one talked about sexually abusing children. For many sane, normal people, it never occurred to them to do such a thing, so it never occurred to them it was happening to other people. If someone did find out about it, they often turned away, having no clue about what to do. Now it’s different. Even in kindergarten, puppets are acting out “good touches” and “bad touches.”

But there weren’t any puppets around when Zeke’s hands were violating my tiny body. His “lovin’” as he called it, took worse and worse turns. My little body ached all the time from then on out.

I could feel Aunt Lydia’s eyes on me, one hand absentmindedly heating the butter and chocolate mixture as one more horrible memory came back in fine detail.

It was raining. As Zeke’s car was in front of our apartment when school let out, I didn’t go home. I walked back to town and went to the library. When I was sure my mother was home, I went back. Zeke’s car wasn’t there, so I used my key and entered our shabby apartment. But Zeke was hiding behind my bed. When I dropped my backpack on my desk he sprang out and grabbed me. The buttons of my shirt popped off, my skirt flew up and then he tossed me on the bed. My mother walked in within two minutes.

I know that this was a good thing because she saved me from getting raped by Zeke. But it was a horrible thing, too.

My mother was absolutely, positively furious.

At me.

“You little bitch!” she screamed. I still remember that scream of pure rage as she ran into the room. Zeke scrambled off of me while she hauled me up and slapped me across the face. “Get your own boyfriend! Leave mine alone!”

Her ranting and ravings went on and on. I was a horrible daughter, a demented girl, a selfish bitch. Zeke sat back and smiled. When she turned on him, he told her that I had seduced him, that he’d had too much to drink that day, that he really wanted my mother and wouldn’t she come back to the bedroom that second, please, so he could fuck her?

She slapped me across the face again, then slammed the door. I heard them in the next room and shoved a sock in my mouth so they wouldn’t hear me screaming. I screamed all night.

My teacher asked me the next day if I was all right, and I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t. She was so pretty and so kind, and I thought she would think I was dirty.

A few days later Zeke tried to shove his way into my room. I could feel the screams welling up in me again, so I climbed out the window and jumped. Our apartment was three floors up. I hit a tree, then landed knee-first on the pavement, which was what gave me the gaping scar that Caroline saw. Still, it was better than landing on my head.

Several women saw it happen, and the police and an ambulance were called. I enjoyed my two-day stay in the hospital. The nurses comforted me when I screamed.

Zeke saw the police and fire engines, packed up his stuff, and left my mother immediately after that. We didn’t see him again.

The Vermont State Police caught up with him when he went after the daughter of the assistant attorney general, whom he met in a video game arcade. Zeke was heading out of town on the freeway when the police boxed him in. Scrambling out of the car, he tried to run, but then he realized he was trapped and pulled a gun. The police pulled theirs, and that was the end of Zeke.

My mother and I watched the newscast together, and she cried, then glared at me. But she had a new boyfriend by then, Taryn. He didn’t like children in a sexual sense at all, but he did like porn, and he often convinced my mother to bring her friend Marie Alice over for a threesome. I couldn’t sleep when Marie Alice was over for all the noise those three made.

But at least I liked Taryn. He said good morning to me, he said good night, he bought us food, I saw him pay our bills on numerous occasions. He would often give me fifty dollars and now and then even stood up for me when my mother was screaming at me for one thing or another.