“Brother, brother! Help me, brother!” I lean over, positioned at the bottom of the stairs, on my knees and reach to the top step, begging my grandson’s assistance as we play out the famous scene from The Lion King.
He pushes my reaching hands back and I over-dramatically fall back onto the ground - end of the scene. He rushes down the stairs laughing, jumps on me and I give him a big hug. I lean back against the mammoth coffee table - it is indestructible, weighs a ton and often serves as a stage for my little guy. He sits in my lap, sipping his juice while Lion King plays on the tv - his eyes flutter, sleep not far away.
“Hey guys.” My stepson, the the little one’s father, enters through the side door without making a sound.
“Hey, how was your night?” I look his way, expecting a response.
“Yeah, it was okay.” He stands staring at us before cautiously stepping forward, arms outstretched, telling his son to come to him. He does not budge, so he warily leans forward, pulling the boy from my lap. They disappear upstairs as I stand, stretch and drain a bottle of water.
I hear footsteps above me, a door shuts and then quiet. I glance at the clock, much later than expected. I munch on pretzels as they sleep, contemplating bed myself. The wife arrives a few minutes later as she had given mom a ride home from work. Small talk follows and then bed - the house silent.
A few nights later, it was the two of us again with everybody occupied. The little one loved his bath time - there was a pile of toys and various scenarios to play out. He was busy, in his own world, as I sat next to the bathtub, one arm in the water and the other scrolling my phone. I hear the downstairs door open and slam following the familiar rumble of the stepson’s new Charger in the driveway. Next, footsteps climb the stairs, approaching the bathroom door.
“What is going on?” He swings the door open and stares down at me, a wild look in his eyes.
“Oh, you know, it is the bath hour. How was work?” I smile, it had been a great evening of playing, the little one filled me with joy.
“Yeah, fine, whatever, he needs to get out now.” He motions to the tub as the little boy is oblivious to everything but the green frog in his hands.
“What is going on? You’ve been acting weird the past few days.” I pull my hand from the tub and push my body upright. I stand facing the young adult. There was obviously something on his mind, I could always read his moods.
“You know what is going on.” His eyes tighten their focus on me.
“What are you talking about?”
“C’mon, you know, I saw what you did.” He points at the little one while keeping his gaze on me.
“I have no idea what you saw, so tell me what is on your mind. C’mon, let’s have it.” I was both dumbfounded and uneasy, he had always been temperamental and many hours of anger management had been useless.
“The other night when I came in, he was in your lap.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“You were rubbing against him, I saw you.” He rests his hands on his hips as the the accusation fills the small bathroom. He looks like his mother as she often takes that stance.
“What?” My body goes numb, I feel a tremor in my arm, I have no clue what he is saying. The air has been sucked from the room.
“Don’t try to deny it, I SAW YOU!” His voice raises while stepping to the tub, positioning himself between me and child.
I feel a jolt, like I am holding a live wire or have been punched. I feel sick – beads of sweat cover my head, a knot consumes my stomach.
“I don’t know what you think you saw, but you are out of your mind. I would never, I mean I would never, you know I would never. You have lost it.” I have no clue what to say, there is a dagger in my stomach that cannot be removed. Was this really happening? I look down at the little smiling face that is now frowning, sensing the trouble.
“I know what I saw.” He reaches down, pulling son from the water who reaches for me “Pop Pop!?” wanting a rescue. I turn and retreat from the tiny, steamy bathroom, shutting the door, I hear a cry as he continues to call for me.
I make my way out of the room, over the old blue carpet that should have been replaced years ago, down the steps into the kitchen. The faux wood flooring had held up well. I stop in the dining room, lean forward on a chair. My heart racing, this seem like a nightmare, a bad joke, but it is all too real. My grip tightens on the chair before shoving it, the table slides against the wall as the rest of the chairs scatter.
“Really?!” I yell at the ceiling. I hear quick footsteps across the carpet and into his room, muffled crying can be heard. I feel like crying, but the anger and hurt overpower me. I am in shock and have no clue what to do.
My first thought is I want the boy gone from my house. It is a betrayal of epic proportions, but I cannot kick out the child as well, right? I descend to the lower level and sit in front of the TV as an old episode of Seinfeld plays, my mind drifts back 25 years.
The smiling little two year old barged into my apartment with his mother in tow - I was finally meeting her son after eight months of dating, I was over-heels in love with her. I pick him up and hold him, there is an instant bond. I become his protector and pseudo father as a family forms. I looked at the pictures on the mantle. It was amazing how much the grandson looked like him.
The trance is broken when she walks into the room, staring at me on the couch, after a late night with her sister at the casino.
“From the sound of it, everybody is asleep, which is where you should be since you know your little shadow will wake up bright and early.” She falls into a chair, removes the pumps while rubbing her feet.
“That isn’t going to be a problem.”
“Oh? Something go wrong? Did he take him back to momma?” She glances towards the stairs while unfastening ear rings and placing them on the end table. She leans back, sighs, awaiting an answer.
“No, they are upstairs. You might say something went wrong as your son called me a pedophile.” My heart races, a cold sweat covers me, I hate reliving it. It frightens me to hear it out loud.
“What?” She is understandably confused, leaning forward with hands on knees.
“You heard me. He said he saw me rubbing my dick on the little one, the other night when he came in from the movies.” I motion to the floor in front of the TV, where I had sat with the little boy, after we had played - fun that would never happen again.
“He would not do that. He knows how much you care for him.”
“He would and did. You think I am making this up?”
“What were you doing that night?”
“Seriously? Are you seriously asking me if I was rubbing my dick on a child? After everything you know?” I feel the punches keep coming and I see, or think i do, something in her eyes, albeit briefly, but it was there, like she was processing and thinking what if.” I lower my head in defeat, my world obliterated, the proverbial rug pulled from under me.
“No, I am not saying that, just wondering what he saw or thinks he saw.”
“I was sitting right there, it was after we acted out Lion King scenes on the couch and then the stairs, he was drinking his juice and sitting, well resting, in my lap. I was watching the news when he came and stood in front of us.”
“Well, I just can’t believe he would say that to you. Maybe you misunderstood.”
“Jesus fucking christ, are you serious? He told me he saw what I did and then took the child away, hurried to his room and locked the door.” I could not believe I had to defend myself to her, I feel betrayed and want to scream.
“I know, I am just trying to figure out what happened. It’ll probably be fine tomorrow, you know how he overreacts on everything and if he is fighting with baby momma again then he always acts stupid and lashes out.”
“It won’t be fine tomorrow, it’ll never be fine again.”
“Don’t say that.”
“He has no clue what he said, he has no idea about the truth and when shit gets real, and you know what I mean.”
“Well, we’ll see. Anyway, I did not win anything at the casino.” She rubs her eyes, grabs the shoes and heads upstairs.
I lean forward, head in hands, head throbbing. Everything playing on a loop in my mind and then I take it further thinking about telling others, but is that even possible?
This is a scarlet letter – a stigma for the accused whether true or false, and it will last forever. People remember the cover story not the retraction on page 10 (for those that remember newspapers). A conversation at work, any conversation, will be awkward.
“How was your weekend?”
“It started good but ended badly in an argument with my son, eh, I mean my stepson.”
“That sucks, what’s going on?”
“Oh, he said he saw me sexually abusing his son.”
“What!?”
At this point there will be awkward silence followed by facial expressions and a realization as the confidant processes the information and determines (or accepts) your guilt. Plus, news travels fast.
This leads to shaming both publicly and on the sly with dirty looks and mumbling. No matter the outcome, the seed has been planted and people will always wonder – no, they won’t wonder, they will think they know. And, let’s not forget about social media.
It gets worse, much worse. The police investigate; they must. Now there are police at your home. The baby will be forced to stay away. I am questioned along with everyone involved. Whose judgement isn’t affected by such questions? They will always remember. You will always remember. Yes, I will never forget.
The best-case scenario is it is cleared up, but the stigma remains. Suddenly, your time with the little one is curtailed or other people just happen to always be with you two. It will result in lost opportunities. After all, who would ask such a person to coach a little league team? Plus, you yourself never feel comfortable with the little one, or anyone again. You actually doubt yourself, and you know you are being watched.
I sleep very little that Sunday night. I pack clothes and head to work the next morning – the house is quiet as I leave. It is a long day – I’m sure my manager would love hearing I had been accused of being a pedophile (there goes that promotion and probably job).
After work, I do what any good criminal does – I flee. I find a nearby hotel. I have no intention of going home. I grimace thinking of being almost 50 and unable to go to my own house to avoid a 28-year-old. Can I ever be comfortable in that home again?
I spend the rest of the week at the hotel with nightly conversations with the wife. Her telling me to return, but never actually confronting her son and getting the who, what, when, where and how of the story. She tells me it was nothing, that I am overreacting.
How do you not overact (or just plain act) to being accused of such a thing?
My mind wanders to the night in question. It was just me babysitting. We acted out scenes from movies, I chase him around the living room and we laugh. I play like an elephant and he jumps on my back. I thought nothing more of that night after that.
On my third night at the hotel, she says the stepson spoke about it with his biological father and grandmother. The imagined gossip and judgement are nauseating. Apparently, he downplayed the incident saying I was wearing loose shorts and how Ben was sitting. The accusation plays on a loop in my mind and returns me to a sunny day as an 11 year old.
A guy showed up in the parking space in front of our neighbor’s trailer – turned out the neighbor had a son. I did lots of chores for them to earn money, and they had never mentioned a son. I stood and watched as he worked on his car. After an hour, he finally acknowledged me and asked for help – I handed him tools. He was impressed by my knowledge of the wrenches and sockets. Dad had taught me well.
He slammed the hood of his yellow Duster and told me to get in. I stumbled into the passenger seat while struggling to close the massive door – he ended up walking over and slamming it. He fired up the car and sped out of our trailer park bouncing over the random speed bump – fumbling with the recently installed Hurst shifter all the way.
We ended up at the park, he kept speeding up and slowing down and eyeballing me from the other side of the car. He asked if I liked girls and how often I touched myself - laughing with each question. The car came to rest in a dark area under some trees. He slammed the shifter forward into park and reached over, touching my leg. I was scared and confused. He abruptly stopped, holding his hand in place with his gaze meeting mine. He stayed in a trance before pulling back. He placed both hands on the steering wheel while shaking his head back-and-forth while mumbling to himself. I kept wondering what I had done wrong.
He revved the engine and sped away. We stopped for ice cream and wandered the city before returning home. As I exited the car, he came around and grabbed me by the shoulder while slamming the door. He pushed me down and knelt beside me, said the Lord’s Prayer, handed me a necklace with cross pendant. He squeezed my shoulder, digging his thumb into my shoulder blade while reminding me to tell nobody about our trip. I slowly walked the short distance home. I never saw him again.
I check out of the hotel after a week and return home. We are all home off and on that weekend with the little one too. I keep my distance feeling eyes upon me. The little one does not understand Pop Pop’s absence and distance. This continues for a week, and then one night I stumble upon my accuser in the kitchen.
“Hey.”
“What’s up?”
“You know the things you said to me, the accusations ...”
“Yeah.”
“I hope you understand nothing you imagined happened, and I would never do anything to harm that little boy or any child. If that ever happened, take a gun and end me.”
“Yeah, I know.” A faint smile forms on his lips.
“You know, when I was 11 …” I stammer and cough. Our eyes meet and I stop talking.
“Yeah?”
“Never mind.” I realize it does not matter. He would never understand, nobody would understand.
It was a terrible, short conversation. One of the hardest moments of my life - a failure. All of our conversations are now measured. It bothers me there was never an apology.
I remember the stepson being 10 years old and coming inside from playing, telling me about an older guy playing with them. I erupted and stormed out the door to find the guy, the guy ended up being mentally disabled so my anger was quickly diffused.
The accusation was never raised again, everyone seemed or tried to forget it. However, I cannot forget it and it always makes me wonder plus regret my dysfunctional upbringing where nothing was ever discussed.
I still wonder if he felt no need to apologize because he thought it was all true. It is what I always will think. If so, why continue to bring the child around? I can’t bring it up, I can’t say it out loud.
