the floor covering and out of sight. The carpet remained.
We rented the apartment from an elderly couple that lived upstairs. They were always sweet to me whenever I’d pass them on my way to the corner store or to the neighborhood church to light candles for my grandmother and our little dog Peppi, who’d also died not long after her. I missed them both so much and found comfort lighting a candle for each of them along with saying a prayer that I wished they hadn’t gone, and that I hoped to see them again someday. I believed the candles would help light their way to the Heavenly Father, to God Himself. And feeling that my candle was very important, I visualized the flame literally helping them see their way through what I imagined was somewhere dark.
One afternoon on my way back from the church, the old man from the upstairs apartment called to me from his chair on the front porch. “Come here!” he said with a friendly wave of his hand.
Although I was shy, I didn’t want to be rude, so I slowly entered through the white picket gate and climbed up to the porch. “Would you like some candy?” he asked. I nodded yes. I was a bit nervous about being alone with him and accepting candy, but I didn’t see the harm. After all, he wasn’t a complete stranger.
“Why don’t you come inside while I look for the candy?” he suggested. Ordinarily, his wife joined him on the porch, literally every day. I noticed that she didn’t appear to be around.
“Where is your wife?” I asked innocently.
“In the hospital,” he replied softly. I felt sorry for him, thinkingthat maybe his wife would die like my own grandmother had so recently. As I was going through these sad thoughts, he found what he was looking for. Placing the candy on the table, he told me to come sit on his lap. I did, and he let me take one piece. Being in that house, eating candy while sitting on his knee, was the most unnatural, uncomfortable position I’d ever been in. I just wanted to turn into liquid and drip through the floorboards down to our basement apartment below.
Suddenly I felt his rough hand on my leg. Then, slowly but in one fluid motion, he slipped it underneath my T-shirt and onto my tummy, before settling on my chest. I hadn’t started developing yet and was too young to relate my chest to sex in any way, but I knew this wasn’t right and froze. How was I going to get out of this grip I found so repulsive? Break away from the dirty feeling of being held up against this man who was making me so anxious? I didn’t know if I should resist; I mean, he wasn’t hurting me, and I’d accepted his offer of candy. My hesitation stemmed from not being able to determine where the boundary was between responding to my instinct for suspicion and fear, and my urge to be a good little girl, showing respect and kindness by obeying my poor, elderly neighbor, whose wife was sick and could die. Suddenly, an idea:
“I’d better go see if my mother needs me for something,” I piped up, trying to act like it was an innocent thought, not an excuse he would see through. It took a lot of courage to stand up and walk out of that house, as I knew I was defying an adult’s authority. Once I headed for the door, I just kept going and didn’t look back, hoping with all my might that he wasn’t going to try to stop me. That was close, I thought. Close to what, exactly, I didn’t know at the time; I just knew that something so wrong was happening and that I was vulnerable and somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. Somewhere dangerous, and I’m just glad I had the presence of mind to figure out a way to get out of there.
Once again, I didn’t report this incident to my parents or to anyone else. I actually blamed myself for getting into the situation in thefirst place, probably because I felt that’s how my mother would have reacted if I’d told her. In retrospect, it strikes me as ironic that my mother was my excuse to escape but not my refuge; also
We rented the apartment from an elderly couple that lived upstairs. They were always sweet to me whenever I’d pass them on my way to the corner store or to the neighborhood church to light candles for my grandmother and our little dog Peppi, who’d also died not long after her. I missed them both so much and found comfort lighting a candle for each of them along with saying a prayer that I wished they hadn’t gone, and that I hoped to see them again someday. I believed the candles would help light their way to the Heavenly Father, to God Himself. And feeling that my candle was very important, I visualized the flame literally helping them see their way through what I imagined was somewhere dark.
One afternoon on my way back from the church, the old man from the upstairs apartment called to me from his chair on the front porch. “Come here!” he said with a friendly wave of his hand.
Although I was shy, I didn’t want to be rude, so I slowly entered through the white picket gate and climbed up to the porch. “Would you like some candy?” he asked. I nodded yes. I was a bit nervous about being alone with him and accepting candy, but I didn’t see the harm. After all, he wasn’t a complete stranger.
“Why don’t you come inside while I look for the candy?” he suggested. Ordinarily, his wife joined him on the porch, literally every day. I noticed that she didn’t appear to be around.
“Where is your wife?” I asked innocently.
“In the hospital,” he replied softly. I felt sorry for him, thinkingthat maybe his wife would die like my own grandmother had so recently. As I was going through these sad thoughts, he found what he was looking for. Placing the candy on the table, he told me to come sit on his lap. I did, and he let me take one piece. Being in that house, eating candy while sitting on his knee, was the most unnatural, uncomfortable position I’d ever been in. I just wanted to turn into liquid and drip through the floorboards down to our basement apartment below.
Suddenly I felt his rough hand on my leg. Then, slowly but in one fluid motion, he slipped it underneath my T-shirt and onto my tummy, before settling on my chest. I hadn’t started developing yet and was too young to relate my chest to sex in any way, but I knew this wasn’t right and froze. How was I going to get out of this grip I found so repulsive? Break away from the dirty feeling of being held up against this man who was making me so anxious? I didn’t know if I should resist; I mean, he wasn’t hurting me, and I’d accepted his offer of candy. My hesitation stemmed from not being able to determine where the boundary was between responding to my instinct for suspicion and fear, and my urge to be a good little girl, showing respect and kindness by obeying my poor, elderly neighbor, whose wife was sick and could die. Suddenly, an idea:
“I’d better go see if my mother needs me for something,” I piped up, trying to act like it was an innocent thought, not an excuse he would see through. It took a lot of courage to stand up and walk out of that house, as I knew I was defying an adult’s authority. Once I headed for the door, I just kept going and didn’t look back, hoping with all my might that he wasn’t going to try to stop me. That was close, I thought. Close to what, exactly, I didn’t know at the time; I just knew that something so wrong was happening and that I was vulnerable and somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. Somewhere dangerous, and I’m just glad I had the presence of mind to figure out a way to get out of there.
Once again, I didn’t report this incident to my parents or to anyone else. I actually blamed myself for getting into the situation in thefirst place, probably because I felt that’s how my mother would have reacted if I’d told her. In retrospect, it strikes me as ironic that my mother was my excuse to escape but not my refuge; also
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