Blue Moon by James King Page A

whispered loudly: “For the life of me I don’t understand how your father sweet-talked me into this.” That lament repeated on a regular basis—would be accompanied by a majestic sweep of her right hand. Everything within her line of vision was an eyesore.
    My recollections of childhood are fragmentary at best. I did not know precisely why until I read Virginia Woolf’s
Moments of Being
where she provides an account of how her teenage half-brother placed his hands into her private parts: “I can remember the feel of his hand going under my clothes; going firmly and steadily lower and lower. I remember how I hoped he would stop.” Those words haunted me as I read them, as did Sylvia Fraser’s
My Father’s House,
her account of growing up in Hamilton fifteen years later than myself.
    At first, my father did not force himself on me. No, he was a subtle thief. He would fondle me, usually in the presence of my mother; when her back was turned—even for a moment—he would place a finger into my vagina. Or, he would take my hand and place it on his erection, a blissful smug expression crossing his face—as if he were a lover made happy because he was soon to arrive at the moment of orgasm inside his beloved.
    A bit later—I would have been 9 or 10—he attempted to penetrate me. He summoned me to the large bedroom at the front ofthe house shared by him and my mother. Summarily, he informed me it was a hot day. When I agreed with this observation, he suggested we remove our clothes and lie down on the bed. I knew this was an improper thing to do and when I voiced my reluctance to do so, he informed me I was like my mother: unforgiving and cruel. He had simply wanted to show some affection towards me, and I—like “the other female occupant of the premises”—was a cold little bitch.
    As he said these things, he removed his clothes, revealing in the process his erect penis. He began to manipulate his member, pushing his foreskin up and down as if he were peeling and then re-peeling a very large banana. Then, he ordered me to remove my clothes. Frightened and confused, I began to cry. He walked over to me and began to pull my clothes away. I became hysterical and began to scream. He pushed me on to the bed. Just as he was about to have his way with me, the door opened and there was Mother. A migraine having descended upon her, she had begged off work two hours before her shift finished.
    Swiftly and decisively, she commanded my father to leave the room. He was never allowed to sleep there again. The full force of Mother’s temper was directed against me, however. “A fine little vixen you have become. A regular little temptress.” She slapped me hard on the face and informed me that I would henceforth cohabit with her “in order to protect you from your father’s filthy lust.” She then sat on the bed for a few minutes and, in the process of adjusting herself and retrieving my torn clothing from the floor, commanded me to make her a pot of tea. “Strong, the way you know I like it.” She dismissed me from the room. The incident was never discussed again.
    My mother and father did not argue about sex. They had many other causes for complaint. Both of them had left Scotland—where they met and married—with the intention of “making a go of it” (one of my mother’s favourite expressions) in the New World. In a good mood, she would become philosophical. She and Donald did not believe the streets in Canada would be paved with gold, but they had expected that Canada, in the wake of the promise of renewal engendered by the end of the Great War, would allow them to become prosperous, moderately well-off. Then the mood swingwould come full circle, her face turning bright red: they had been mightily disappointed. Thus, the ensuing bickering about money. My mother would complain about my father’s excessive drinking and