Weekend End

I grew up in a neighborhood that was built out in the early to mid '70s.  It consisted of +/- 400 ranch houses laid out on gently radiused streets.  The topography was basically flat.  Each lot was essentially the same size.  Each house size was similar if not the same.  Overall, there was a fair amount of diversity between the design of the small buildings relative to detailing despite the fact that growing up amongst these structures, I found the families which inhabited them to be altogether different. 

My parents hired a neighbor to provide after school care during my elementary school years.  She seemed to be a genuinely unhappy person who was married to the most intimidating man I'd ever come across as a child.  Mrs. Dorothy was a small, overweight woman who looked to have lived a difficult life.  Her husband was tall, ruddy, tanned and scarred from his laborious vocation.  I rarely saw him, but when I did he refused to speak.  I was afraid of him from the moment I first saw him, therefore I would purposefully avoid him whenever I sensed that he was in the house.

I especially dreaded rainy days.  I would stand outside the schoolhouse hoping my caregiver would care enough to come pick me up.  She didn't.  Inevitably, I'd have to phone her home from the principal's office and politely ask to be retrieved.  Always the last to be picked up, she'd eventually show.  Funny, I can't remember what kind of car she drove.  The private academy that I attended was at the edge of the neighborhood, therefore walking to her house certainly wasn't out of the question.  I simply refused to do it in the pouring rain.

Their home had an "L" shaped parti.  The den was small and cramped.  Like so many ranchers, the living / dining room combo was uselessly cordoned off from the rest of the house.  It served as a perfect repository for unused furnishings and boxes of Christmas decorations. 

The brown paneling throughout the home combined with the small horizontal windows made for a dark interior. 

That darkness seemed to perfectly reflect the heart of this family.

Living there as well were two daughters.  One was my age.  The other was younger by a few years.  The older of the two grew to hate me because her mother would dote on little Rob.  This girl was also quite forward and manipulative.  On two or three separate occasions, she persuaded me to join her in play that seemed ill conceived and forbidden.  During one of those times, her mother came close to catching us behind her daughter's locked bedroom door.  I felt certain that we would both be severely reprimanded afterwards for the obvious, but that wasn't the case at all.  Mrs. Dorothy simply turned a blind eye to our antics.

I remember confessing this event in detail to my father years later, only to have him confirm that I'd done nothing wrong.  It was hard to believe him, but eventually I reconciled the situation within my mind.

The most awkward event occurred due to me ratting on the girl to her mother (over a minor infraction that happened out on their driveway) after arriving at her home after school.  Immediately following, the woman brought the girl inside and beat her in front of me.  She literally ripped off her clothes, threw her over her knees and beat her ass severely.  The child screamed in anguish.  It was incredibly humiliating to watch.  I can't remember if she used her bare hands or a belt.  Not that it matters.  Looking back, I wonder why she failed to even attempt to corroborate my story before reacting so swiftly.

The last details I heard of the daughter were very sad.  She became pregnant from a boyfriend and after delivering twins, their father (her boyfriend) was convicted of child abuse soon thereafter.  The girl's father confronted the boy and physically assaulted him before threatening his life if he ever came near the children again.

From a child's perspective, this family was impossible to comprehend within my mind.  I always felt completely out of touch with the realities of the situation whenever I spent time there.  I was always walking on eggshells.  My only escape was through their furniture-like television every afternoon at 3. 

As an adult looking back, I wonder what was really going on.  I shudder at the thought. 

As an aside, on occasion, Mrs. Dorothy's parents would also keep me in the evening if my parents needed a sitter.  They also lived in our 'hood.  I distinctly remember sitting on their couch with the small framed, older man (Mrs. Dorothy's father) watching television on one particular occasion.  After a few minutes, he unabashedly flipped to the adult entertainment channel which was showing some sort of Las Vegas style awards show.  The women on stage were all topless. 

My eyes grew wide as I'd never seen anything like that before, and I knew in my heart that not only was it wrong for him to be watching it but it was much worse for him to be showing it to me.  Eventually, the man's wife voiced her concern when she realized that there were a lot of boobs on the boob tube.  Only then did he begrudgingly change the channel.

This, I believe, was my first foray into porn at the tender age of nine or ten.

Lagniappe