He was quiet so long that I thought he was not going to answer. I remembered how my therapist would avoid pushing me to reveal my feelings and thoughts. When you’re ready was her favorite expression. It put more pressure on me. How would I really know when I was ready? She was the doctor; why wasn’t she the one to decide when I was ready?
But there did come a time when what was inside you had built up so strongly that it threatened to explode, to tear you apart until you were no good to anyone else and especially to yourself. It was just like steam. You did need some sort of release, and that did help you to feel better. In the end, despite our reluctance, we realized we all needed someone we could trust. Loneliness was far more painful and unbearable. For some, I saw the only solution was to invent imaginary friends, but ghosts were impossible to hug, and their kisses were nothing but a slight breeze, barely felt and never remembered.
“Five years ago, when my sister, Jo, was only seven, I was walking past her room. Her door was slightly open. My mother was on some shopping expedition with friends in Philadelphia,” he began.
His voice was thin, like the voice of someone fighting back the urge to cry. I said nothing. I didn’t move. I don’t think I even breathed.
“I heard my father talking and paused. As far as I knew, he was rarely in Jo’s room. Whenever my mother had a question about something for or about Jo—furniture, clothes, anything—his stock reply was always, ‘Women know more about girls. You decide.’
“What drew my attention was the way he was talking to her. He was speaking in a loud whisper, his voice so different that I almost didn’t recognize it and thought there was some stranger in the house. I inched up to the door and opened it just a little more to look in on them.”
Troy paused to lay his head back on the seat and take deep breaths. In the dim starlight, I could see some tears glistening at the edges of his eyes. I reached for his hand and held it. He sat forward again, but he didn’t look at me.
“She was naked on the bed. He was on his knees beside her and looking her over. His left hand was on her left leg and moving up slowly as he whispered to her, telling her she had to be aware of this part of her body and how, as she grew older, there would be more and more nice feelings to enjoy there as well as here, he said, touching her nipples. She wasn’t moving or crying or saying anything.
“His fingers moved up her leg, and he started to touch her, stroke her, and then leaned all the way down to kiss her there. I had just had some chocolate and a peach, and suddenly, it all wanted to come up my throat. I gagged as he started to turn toward the door. I ran down the hall, down the stairs, and out of the house. I just kept running until I was out of breath. The more I ran, the better I felt, and I kept from throwing up.
“But I collapsed on the grass, and without even knowing why, I started to cry. Then I lay down and remained crunched in a fetal position for hours, I think. My heart was pounding for so long I thought I would die right there on the grass.”
He lowered his head. I waited for a few moments. No one had to tell me how difficult that was for him to reveal. I was crying for him, too. He took another deep breath and looked up again, but not at me.
“I didn’t think he had seen me in the doorway, but I couldn’t be sure. I was afraid more than anything else. For a while, I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t look at him without thinking about it, though, and I thought he realized why. He couldn’t ask me, of course. He didn’t mention anything when he saw me right afterward, but there was a look in his eyes now when he saw me, and whenever he looked at me that way, I always turned away like I was the guilty one. I hated that feeling.
“Finally, one day when both our parents were out, I went to Jo’s room and sat on the floor with her. She had beautiful furniture in her room, but she also had this thick, fluffy pink rug and liked sitting on the floor while she read one of her books or listened to music on her earphones.
“I rarely went into her room to play something with her or talk to her. I was a macho guy who wanted to be like his macho father. No girlie stuff for me. Imagine how that image shattered. What I didn’t want to do was frighten her or make her cry. I was smart enough to speak casually, making it seem like I was only curious and not making her feel guilty or upset.
“?‘Father doesn’t talk to me about myself,’ I began. ‘I have to learn everything from my friends or from books. Does he ever talk to you about yourself?’ I asked, making it seem like I was jealous. She nodded. ‘Well, when he talks to you, does he show you stuff, like touch you or something?’ She nodded again. ‘Did he do that more than once?’ I asked her, and she nodded. Then I held up my hands and started to show fingers to count how many times. She indicated it was seven. ‘Did you ever tell Mommy?’ She shook her head.
“?‘Father says not to,’ she told me. ‘He says Mommy wants to be the one to tell me things about myself and would be mad at him for doing it. He made me promise not to tell her,’ she said.
“I nodded and then started to fiddle with her iPad and pretend that none of what she had told me was important. Of course, I felt like it was thundering in my head. He had done it multiple times and most likely wasn’t going to stop. Nevertheless, it still took me weeks to get up the courage to tell my mother. My father was on one of his international business trips at the time, which probably boosted my courage. Luckily, she hadn’t wanted to go with him.
“I went to her room. She was having one of her migraine headaches and was lying there with a warm wet cloth over her eyes and didn’t even hear me come in. She didn’t realize I was there until I sat on her bed. She looked up, surprised, of course. She realized from the look on my face, I guess, that this was no ordinary moment. I wasn’t there to ask to do something or invite someone over for the weekend.
“?‘What?’ she demanded. Going to her while she was having a migraine wasn’t the smartest thing, but when the courage finally came to me, I wanted to do it quickly and get it finished. After I told it all practically in one breath, I thought the look on her face was more frightening than what I had seen my father doing. Without asking me anything or saying anything at all, she rose and went to Jo’s room. I went to mine and tried to do some homework. Finally, I just lay on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. In anticipation, my heart had been pounding the whole time, just as it had that day.
“Whatever Jo told her was enough to overpower her migraine. She came to me and told me never, never, ever to speak of what I had seen. She said she would handle it.
“Her way of handling it was to immediately enroll Jo in a private school where she would be sleeping. A friend of hers had placed her children there, and she and my mother were always arguing about where children would get the best education these days.
“I never knew exactly what she told my father when he returned, but life changed dramatically in our house. He never confronted me about it, but whenever he did look at me after she had spoken to him, he lowered his eyes first. The following semester, I was enrolled in a private junior high affiliated with Littlefield, and then when I was in senior high, I came here.”
“So he never said anything to you or you to him?” I asked.
“No. My mother preferred that we pretend it never happened. Embarrassment and losing face in the social world were always more important. My father spoiled me with gifts in a pathetic attempt to win back my respect for him.
“The funny thing about all this was that my mother wanted me out of the house, too. I think whenever she saw me, she recalled the day, the moment, I revealed it all to her. You know that old saying Don’t shoot the messenger? Sophocles in Antigone: ‘No one loves the messenger who brings bad news.’ Well, that was me. It’s like a stain my mother sees on my face, even to this day, I think. She knows that what I know will never be forgotten. I have nightmares about it. I used to wake up and run to the mirror to see if there was actually a stain there.
“Anyway, I didn’t need a therapist to tell me where my introversion and other complexes were born. Once, my mother toyed with the idea of my seeing one because of how much of a loner I became, but the humiliation I’m sure she imagined potentially coming from my revelations swallowed up that idea quickly. You’re on your own for a good reason, Matzner, I told myself. Get used to it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and hated saying it immediately, because it was something I hated anyone saying to me.
He nodded. “There are all sorts of ramifications from what I witnessed and knew. I’ve gotten so I hate my name, Matzner. Someday I’ll change it.” He sighed and sat back.
I looked down but kept my hand in his.
“You know what frightens me the most, Kaylee? Thinking I might be like my father. I was afraid to look at little girls, and that fear kind of expanded, I guess, to older girls.”