Note: This is a small tie-in story to my larger work A Generous Heart. I wrote this, however, BEFORE writing the other story. There are some minor spoilers for A Generous Heart (maybe some major ones depending on how you view spoilers). Some scenes/conversations overlap and may differ slightly as A Generous Heart is done but being reviewed by beta readers. I have no plans to go back and edit this story to reflect those changes.
Pretty PG rated - some talk of adult themes such as sex, prostitution, drinking, a few minor swear words.
For those who have waited and wondered about A Generous Heart - it is now up! :D
I own none of the characters (or I wouldn't be driving a Ford).
Once Upon a Time
Who are you and what are you doing here? Oh, it's you. What do you want? You want to hear my story? Did you bring my payment – fifteen cents, a nail and the shell of a great-great-great grandfather snail? No. Well then, I'm afraid I can't tell you.
What did you say? You want to know what happened before that? I never tell anyone that story. Get out of…wait, what do you have there? Marshmallows? Forgive my gleeful laugh. Put them in the tin pail, child. Let me lower the whisper-ma-phone and I will tell you my tale.
It all started a long time…don't give me that look or no story! Where was I? Oh yes, it all started a very long, LONG time ago…
I was born in April...should have been May. I was early and so small and frail the midwife told my mother not to bother watching me because I would not make it. Mom, however, wasn't going to give up on her firstborn, so she did what any mother would do – kept me warm, fed me and loved me. I was given my father's name and no, I won't tell you what it is. No one ever called me that anyway – I was always called by my last name or "Once" for short. Obviously, the midwife was wrong because I not only survived, but I believe I've outlived my entire family.
Mom was sixteen when I came into the world and Dad around eighteen. I'm sort of the reason they got married. It was the proper thing to do even though the marriage was rocky from the start and when I was young, I often heard them fighting. Don't get me wrong, Dad was never abusive to Mom or us. Actually, he was a great father, just not a compatible husband for Mom. I grew up with it though, and listening to them bicker brought a sense of consistency.
Mom got pregnant again and she grew large – very large. Dad joked that she must have one huge baby in there, but no, she had two average-sized babies on time – my brothers Brett and Chet. I remember very little – we were only about two years apart after all. After that, Dad said we couldn't afford any more children. He was a farm worker and not on our farm – no, we weren't fortunate enough to live on a farm – but one locally that produced vegetables and fruit for a large canning company. They paid him, and all their workers, a pittance for their hard labor.
Where did we live? In a very small house – three rooms, that's it. And no, one wasn't the bathroom – we had an outhouse for that. A bedroom all of us slept in, a kitchen and large main room with a fireplace that would be our only source of heat if there were any trees around we could chop for wood. Turns out there wasn't…shame, too, I'm good at chopping trees. But then, you already knew that.
I'm not sure where my parents got the privacy or time, but my mother got pregnant three more times in the next five years. Two she lost very early – I'm convinced she starved herself or took something to make it happen. My father was furious every time she was expecting as though he'd had nothing to do with it. The third was a small girl, even earlier and more frail than I had been. She breathed only half an hour then mercifully died.
"It's okay, really," Mom said sadly. "We couldn't afford another."
She'd really wanted a daughter.
After that, the way Mom looked at us changed as if we could be gone any moment.
Dad worked long hours on the farm, but really, he was creative – an inventor. He was always talking about machines he could build, things he came up with that could help either the farm or our family. Mom, well, she wasn't too convinced. Neither of them even finished high school – without an education, farm work or other manual labor was the best they could hope for. Not only that, Dad was ever the dreamer – doodling his ideas on paper or talking about them, but without the ambition to make them a reality.
He was also a musician and taught me to play guitar as soon as I was old enough to hold one. It turned out I had inherited his talent and music was something I loved.
"We could pawn that guitar and put some food on the table," Mom told him.
"Absolutely not. It was my father's and, besides, Once is a natural."
"Because there's really going to be a future for him in that."
He patted my back. "Never give up on your dreams, Once. Yes, hard work is important, but you should aspire to become more than we are. I want to see you make something of yourself. I want to see you graduate high school – college, too."
He never got the chance. One night, I was awakened by their arguing just outside the door. This was different…they were really heated.
"I can't believe you kept this from me! We could have had it taken care of!"
"This isn't a problem to have 'taken care of'!"
"We can't afford another child, Isabella!"
She was pregnant again. I tried to go back to sleep, but my stomach growling in hunger made it difficult.
"We can hardly feed the ones we have!"
"We'll send Oncie to work in the fields. He's almost eight, after all. He can at least pick fruit or something."
I always hated my mom's nickname for me. Even when I was little, it irked me.
"I don't want him working there," Dad shot back. "I want him applying himself to getting an education, to doing better than we did! Brett and Chet, yes, they're cut out to be farm workers – they're not that bright, but Once is. He's so smart, so talented, Isabella, and so determined. Why are you afraid to give him a chance?"
"And do what? Dream, like you do? No, I want him to understand that hard work puts food on the table and is what will provide for his family!"
"And I want to teach him not to make our mistakes! I love them – I love them all, but if we'd waited, if we'd finished at least high school, maybe we could do better for them! Maybe we wouldn't be having this conversation and maybe I wouldn't be hoping for another stillborn child!"
"I can't believe you would say that!"
"I can! If you're intent on having this child, you raise it alone!"
"You can't mean that!"
"I most certainly do! We never should have gotten married! But, that's it, Isabella – I'm done! Game over!"
I heard his footsteps, angrily stomping across the floor. Light crept into the room as the door creaked open. I quickly shut my eyes so he'd think I was asleep. I don't know if he did the same to my brothers, but he gently stroked my hair and gave me a soft kiss on the forehead. "I just know you're destined for greatness. I'm sorry I won't be here to see it."
When he finally left, I opened my eyes. The guitar was propped up against the wall by the bed. I could hear sobbing coming from the kitchen – my mother, bawling her eyes out as my father closed the front door for the last time.
Mom would tell us later on she got word he'd passed, but I was never able to verify if this was true. If it wasn't, I hope he at least saw a magazine article or something when I was at the height of my glory. I hope he never heard about my fall from grace. But even then…even after condemning myself to seclusion, I held onto scant hope for years that I'd see him again. I never did.
The next morning, Mom locked herself in the bedroom and didn't come out until that night. She told us what we already knew – Dad was not coming back. "You boys need to be the men of the house now, especially you, Oncie. One tear. If you're going to cry, you get one tear. That's it. Otherwise, deal with it on your own."
I was seven. That was an incredibly heavy life lesson for such a young child. From then on, no matter what tragedy struck, the One Tear Rule was like a commandment. Pain was to be dealt with quickly and privately whether it was physical or emotional.
Mom took a job at the farm and true to her word, she made me work there too on weekends. They were not going to directly pay a child, so my earnings went into Mom's paycheck, meaning I never saw a dime. In fact, when inspections were done, everyone under sixteen was herded into a storm cellar so we'd be hidden from sight. As long as they didn't see us, it was ignored that the farm was using child labor.
"Can't I use some of my money to buy a toy?" I asked one day. "I earn it, after all."
"How much do you think you make? Here's a hint: not much. No, you need to stop thinking of yourself and think about what's best for the family. We can't afford food or decent clothes for you guys and you ask about a toy?"
She was right and we soon learned the difference between needs, wants and luxuries. For instance, we needed toothbrushes – dental care was expensive (in fact, we never even saw a dentist until we were adults) and my mother knew prevention was much cheaper than fixing problems later. Floss was less common, but when we had a little extra money, my mom would buy some. Toothpaste was a luxury item – we never had that. Mouthwash was a 'don't-even-think-about-it' item. Soap – necessity, shampoo – not so much, conditioner – luxury, going to a barber instead of Mom cutting our hair – don't even think about it! You get the idea.
Another thing we didn't have was medical care. Like the rest of us, my little sister was born at home a month after I turned eight. She was on time; she was healthy and came into the world with a strong cry. My mother named her Airabella and said she'd never seen a more beautiful baby. She had the same light blue eyes I did and as she grew, her ebony hair got waves and curls in it. My mother simply shook her head. "Great, I'm going to have a hell of a time keeping her away from the boys when she gets older."
I got sick a lot, especially in the winter. All Mom could do was use cold compresses to keep my fevers down until they broke. Airabella, too, seemed prone to illness. Brett and Chet were made of stronger stuff, apparently. They did get sick now and then – for instance we all had chicken pox at the same time – but not as frequently as my sister and I. I hear there's a vaccine for the chicken pox now…wasn't back then and even if there had been, we wouldn't have been able to afford it. We couldn't afford any immunizations and I'm sure my mother lived in fear we'd end up with something that could kill or paralyze us…something that a simple shot could have prevented. I'm not exactly sure how she even got us into school without them, but it probably involved forged shot records.
School was my refuge from home. At least there it was warm and I could forget about home and the farm and immerse myself in learning. The library was free for students and I quickly became addicted to the written word, reading anything and everything I could get my hands on. Apparently now people read everything on electronic devices, but I tell you there is nothing like cracking open an actual book and smelling the combination of paper and ink. In the winter, I would stay until they closed at five, then walk home in the dark and cold, only to be met with a chilly house, the only heat and light coming from a few candles on the dinner table. More nights than not, I'd come home and Mom would be scooping out meager portions of food for my siblings with no plates on the table for herself or I.
"We have to sacrifice, Oncie," she'd say. "Think of the family."
"Can't we eat at the soup kitchen?"
"We don't need charity. We get by just fine."
Because apparently starving yourself and your son is "getting by just fine". I'd like to say I got used to the hunger, but that would be a lie. When the other kids at school would be eating lunch, I'd bury my nose in a book and hope no one noticed how baggy my clothes were getting.
When we worked on the farm from mid-March until the end of October, things were a bit better, but even though Mom tried to set some of our earnings aside to last through winter, it never did. The first two weeks of March right before we started work again were always the hardest. That was when things seemed so desperate I wondered if we would even survive. The walk to school was difficult when our bodies didn't have the energy for such exertion. You know how older folks always joke about having to walk five miles to school, well, it wasn't five miles, but we did live outside of town, and yes, we walked every day. One year during that time there was no food…not one scrap in the house for any of us. It was hard to concentrate in school and during lunch, I simply avoided the cafeteria and spent time in the library.
"You're in here every day," the librarian said. "Don't you ever eat?"
No, actually, it seemed like I didn't and to be around the other kids while they dug into all the delicious things their parents had packed for them would be torture. "I forget my lunch a lot."
Finally, work started again and on the first day Mom was paid, she finally bought food. Maybe we only had canned soup and bread that night, but it was delicious…so delicious. I had never been so thankful for something to eat. The next day, we actually had peanut butter sandwiches to take to school. I know what you're thinking and no, there was not jelly. Peanut butter was cheap and protein-rich; jelly was a luxury item.
And this was my life – freezing, starvation, illness, work – I knew no different. This was simply reality.
"Inspection!" Another worker called out. "Inspection!"
We knew what that meant. We left our flats of vegetables where they were and ran as fast as we could through the fields toward the storm cellar. If they didn't see us, we didn't exist. I was eleven, the twins nine and Airabella only three, so I helped them into the cellar with some of the other younger kids.
"Move it, they're coming!" A teenager told me with a shove.
I lost my footing on the stairs and hit the concrete floor. Pain shot through my wrist and I clenched my teeth to keep from making noise as the rest filed in and closed the doors. We were all packed in standing shoulder to shoulder. My wrist was throbbing and I felt a familiar stinging in my eyes. One tear…that's what I was allowed, so I let it fall in the darkness of the cellar where no one could see.
"How long we…" Airabella's question was cut off I knew one of my brothers had covered her mouth.
"Shh." I hissed.
We heard footsteps on the doors of the cellar and collectively held our breaths hoping they did not open the entrance. If the farm were shut down, all our parents and all of us would be out jobs. Thankfully, the footsteps got fainter and after what seemed like a long time, the doors finally opened.
"Coast clear, you guys," we were finally told.
I walked carefully up the steps and finally was able to see my wrist in the June sunshine. It was swollen and I knew…I just knew…it was broken. Get over it, I told myself, as quickly and privately as possible.
It was difficult working with one hand, but I managed to get through the day before meeting up with Mom who just stared in disbelief before yelling at me. "You stupid boy! We don't have money for a doctor!"
But…a doctor was needed and so for the first and only time in my childhood, I went. They did x-rays and set my arm in a cast.
"He needs to stay in the cast for six weeks," the doctor said. "Sorry you won't have much fun this summer vacation."
My mother simply shook her head slowly at me. Summer vacation wasn't fun – it was work and now I couldn't work as fast, which could mean less pay. Not only that it was my right wrist; my preferred hand was now unable to be used.
The doctor wrote something on a piece of paper. "I'll give you a prescription for some pain medicine. That'll help."
My mother accepted the paper with a smile, but once we were on our way home, she ripped it up and threw it in a nearby trash can. "You have cost me enough money today. You deal with the pain. You should have broken your neck – I'd have one less mouth to feed."
When it came time to settle the bill, she struck at me again the only way she knew how. One day I came home from the farm to find my guitar was gone. She had pawned it.
"Dad gave that to me! How could you do this?"
"If you hadn't been so careless, I wouldn't have. Besides, you have more to worry about than playing on that silly guitar."
I was convinced she hated me. I would later find out this wasn't the case, but not for many years. It happened when I was fifteen. Brett and Chet were thirteen and Airabella seven. It was the dead of winter – no work to be done, money and food running low. No heat…what else was new? Airabella was the first to start coughing. Then she got a fever. Mom tried her best with what she had, which wasn't much.
I followed Airabella, my energy being sapped and finally I was confined to bed, feverish and coughing. This was serious, I realized, when even Brett and Chet came down with it. Time flowed together, none of us knowing how long this would last or what illness it was. Mom stayed with us, at least, I think she was there most of the time. I was so tired…we all were…and we just simply slept. I really thought maybe this was it. Mom must've thought so too because one time when I opened my eyes slightly, she was measuring my shoulders. And I knew why…to give measurements for a coffin.
"Am I going to die?" I asked weakly.
"I think so, Oncie. Whenever you're ready, you just let go. It's okay for you to go."
It was nighttime, this I knew from the moon streaming in through the window. I shivered violently, my fever still roaring. Something had woken me and it took me a moment to realize what it was. Mom was kneeling in the corner, rocking back and forth and sobbing. What happened to the One Tear Rule? She was holding something in her arms and it took me a moment to realize it was Airabella, still in her nightgown, limp, unmoving…dead.
Mom's lips were moving and it took a moment for my ears to register what she was saying. "Thank You, God…thank You for taking her. She's not here anymore and I know there's no more pain with You. No more hunger, no more cold, no more poverty. Please…if You can, take them…take them all. Take my boys too…I can't watch them suffer anymore."
Well, it turned out, as you probably know, that God had other plans for us. I woke up one day, soaked in sweat, but no longer shaking, no longer feverish. Brett and Chet weren't beside me and my heart pounded. Had they died too? And Airabella…my sweet, beautiful sister…I would never see her again.
"Oncie?" Mom asked. "You awake?" She felt my forehead. "Thank God…your fever finally broke."
Yeah, didn't you just ask Him to take me, too? I tried to sit up, but was still so weak. "Where are they?"
"Brett and Chet are at the farm."
Thank God, indeed…they had recovered. "Airabella…?" Even though I already knew.
"She's gone."
I used my single tear…let it roll down from my eye and fall on the bed. Do I mean pillow, you ask…ha, no…luxury item. She didn't hate us. She was just tired of watching us suffer and figured maybe, just maybe, if she pushed us away then it wouldn't be so painful if we died. "How long was I asleep?"
"You've been sick two weeks. I really thought…well, it doesn't matter."
I knew what she thought, because I'd been worried about the same thing. When I was finally able to get out of bed and look in the mirror, it was awful. My cheeks were sunken in, my pajamas hung on my bony frame. When I took them off, I could see nothing but bones – ribs, hips, shoulder blades – it was a bit disgusting actually. But winter was over. The farm was open again and I'd be able to work, which meant money, and that meant food.
When I was strong enough, Mom took me outside and showed me where she had buried Airabella. It was near the single tree in our yard that was close to being covered in spring blossoms. I wanted to ask her how she paid for the coffin. Then I noticed the wedding ring she'd always still worn for many years was gone from her finger. It was only later…much later that summer, actually, when I had need to get into the shed that I discovered it had, in fact, bought coffins for all of us. Three perfectly made pine boxes, one longer than the other two, neatly lined up against the wall of the shed unused by her sons whom God had spared.
I had been given a second chance at life and decided I was going to do something with it – something more than work on a farm for the rest of my days. I had always excelled in school, but really started applying myself. By the time I was a junior in high school other students were already talking about college. I hadn't really thought about it because I knew without asking that higher education was a 'don't-even-think-about-it' item. In fact, the only reason we were in public school was because it was free. But then I started thinking: why not? Why not me?
"There are scholarship options," the guidance counselor told me when I asked. "And looking at your grades and extracurricular activities, I see no reason why a school wouldn't consider offering you one."
That was my only chance. I made sure my schedule was well rounded, taking things like foreign languages, woodshop and even home economics…this latter choice did not make me popular with the other guys, but I got to spend a whole hour surrounded by pretty girls, so it wasn't a total waste. Due to alphabetical seating, I shared my work station with Norma Pacey, who thought it was great to have a guy interested in sewing and cooking. "If only all of you boys could learn to do these things. I'm sure any girl would love having a husband who could at least cook, not to mention sew enough to help with mending."
I shrugged. "I figured it might come in handy someday."
"You could even take in your own clothes so they fit better," she suggested.
That was actually a marvelous idea. Of course, we didn't own a sewing machine, but Mom had needles and thread and I busied myself on some nights when I wasn't too tired or buried in homework painstakingly sewing my clothes smaller by hand. A better fit made a world of difference and I thought I looked rather good.
"It doesn't matter how the clothes make you look," Mom told me. "What's important is they keep you warm."
"I can't believe you like to sew," Brett teased.
Chet joined in. "Yeah, what are you making next? A dress?"
It honestly didn't bother me – that's what brothers did and I joined right in. "Absolutely. What color would you like?"
It gave me a sense of peace though – something calming to do at the end of a stressful day. I also took up knitting, mostly because my aunt and uncle sent Mom yarn and needles one year so she could make sweaters and scarves. "What are they thinking? I don't knit!"
So I learned and in no time we had new clothes to keep the chill away.
"You made this?" Norma asked at school, touching my sweater sleeve, admiring the handiwork.
"Yeah. It's pretty easy once you get the hang of it."
"Will you teach me?"
And that's how our friendship began. Norma was the first real friend I ever had. Believe it or not, when you're that kid from outside of town who wears patched up clothing, the others don't exactly line up to be your friend. It takes a special person sometimes to look beyond that. Norma came from a wealthy family – everyone seemed to want to be her friend, but she told me once wealth was like a curse too. "I never know who my real friends are. I mean, I'm not much to look at, so when guys ask me out, I know it's just because they have ideas about marrying into a rich family."
Was she a great beauty? No, she was short and curvy with unremarkable hazel eyes and chestnut brown hair that fell in waves down to her shoulders. "It has to beat being poor," I told her. "Girls aren't exactly clamoring for my attention."
"Well, I'm sure someday you'll find someone," she said, doodling in her notebook. "A girl with a beautiful heart and a matching exterior – a rarity in this world."
I looked at her sketch – three random diamond shapes, which the more I looked at them didn't seem random at all. I would see this design years down the road on a blue barrette nestled in indigo hair belonging to an otherworldly beauty with doe-like blue eyes surrounded by long lashes. This conversation would stay buried in the recesses of my mind until this beauty was asked her name, to which she replied the simple word that made me remember: "Rarity."
Yeah, I totally put a ring on that one day.
But, that's a story for another time.
Senior year finally came and with it promise of a brighter future. I wanted more than anything to be the first in my family to graduate high school. Norma and I talked a lot about which colleges we were going to apply to. I didn't have high ambitions – I just wanted to go somewhere decent and with my counselor's help began applying for scholarships.
"You still haven't taken your aptitude test though. You should have done that as a junior."
It was the same old tired reason I gave her as I shook my head. "We can't afford it." Man, higher education really was for the rich.
When I told Norma, she said she'd pay for it but I shook my head. "My family doesn't accept charity, sorry."
"Well, what if it wasn't charity? What if I made you a deal? Winter's going to be cold this year and I could use a pink sweater. I'll pay you the amount the test costs if you knit one for me."
That made it a sale, not charity. She paid for the yarn in addition to the test fee and within a week I had knitted her a lovely pink sweater that she wore often throughout the winter. I took my aptitude test and when the results came back I knew nothing was going to stop me. I had scored very high…incredibly high. Not perfect, of course – the test was designed to make a perfect score nearly impossible. And I really thought…really believed that I had a chance now.
I underestimated the power my mother still had over my life. She had no idea college was even a thought in my mind. She was convinced I'd accepted my place in life and would work on the farm until I shriveled up and died. So, in the spring when a package came for me from a prestigious university halfway across the country, she pretty much lost it. "What is this?!"
I ripped open the fat yellowish envelope and read the best news I'd had in a long time containing words like "congratulations" and "full scholarship". I had done it.
"I didn't even know you were thinking about this," Mom said. "Well, you got in – you'll always have that."
"What do you mean?"
"You don't think you're actually going, do you? You're not abandoning this family to pursue something that might not even pan out."
"You can't expect me to give this up."
"We don't need their charity so you can go away for four years and not contribute."
"But when I graduate…"
"What? You think a piece of paper means a job? There are plenty of people who go to college and never make it. You have a job."
"Right, because being a farmhand is what I dream of doing the rest of my life!"
"You are going to be eighteen soon, which means you can work full time and maybe things will better around here!"
"Things will never get better! Don't you see that? The company that owns the farm will continue to make sure we stay close to being slave labor for them! But I'm smart, Mom, really smart and I know if I take this chance, I'm going to do something great!"
"No, you're just like your father – living in a dream world, believing everything will just fall into place and be okay. Besides, they won't take you without a high school diploma."
I was struck silent for only moments unable to believe what she'd said. "What?"
"You turn eighteen on the twenty-second. You can work full time. What part aren't you understanding? You aren't finishing school."
I shook my head. "No. I am finishing school – at least high school. And I'm going to college."
"You need to stop thinking about only yourself! You need to stop being so damn greedy!"
This was the only thing I'd ever been really adamant about – the only thing I'd really ever wanted for just myself – a chance at a better life. And in her eyes, I was selfish.
It was later she came to me, holding the package in her hands. "Oncie, I know it's hard to understand now, but this really is for the best. You can't think about four years from now and how it might help us in the future. You need to think about your family here and now. This doesn't put food on the table, but another adult in the house with a full-time job will. So, I'll tell you what. You write these people back and turn down their offer and I will let you finish high school. Maybe when Brett and Chet turn eighteen we can revisit this idea."
It was useless to argue with her, but no, we couldn't. I wasn't going to get a scholarship at twenty years old. I would never be able to pay back a student loan, nor have any kind of credit to get one with. And having the money upfront to pay for college, well, that was just laughable. A high school diploma was the best I was going to get and it killed me inside, it really did, as I wrote to the university and while I thanked them for their generosity and consideration, told them I'd made other plans for my future. Yeah, some plans.
"I can't believe she'd do that to you," Norma said when I told her what had happened. We were walking out of school at the end of the day.
"I can. She's always like this."
"But you have so much potential. It's such a waste."
"I'm going to be on that God forsaken farm until I die."
"Oh, don't say that. I bet something wonderful is going to happen to you."
I looked at her. She was wearing the sweater I'd knitted for her. Even though it was April, the weather was chilly and the smell of impending rain hung in the air. "I wish I had your optimism. At least I'll get to graduate high school. I mean, I won't walk in the ceremony or anything, but I get my diploma all the same."
"Why aren't you walking?"
"Same reason as always."
"I could buy your cap and gown for you."
"No, don't do that."
"But you're graduating with honors. It would be a shame for you to miss it." She put a hand on my arm. "I want to do it because you're my friend. I want us there together. It's not charity – it's a gift."
"One I can't return, Norma."
"I'm not expecting anything in return. I just want you to have that day where all your hard work is recognized. If anyone deserves it, it's you, Once."
It began sprinkling as we walked and pouring when we turned onto the street where she lived. We ran the rest of the way to her house and took refuge on the covered porch.
"I'm soaked," she said, running her fingers through her wet hair. "I should have brought an umbrella but I didn't think it would rain."
"I don't mind the rain too much. It helps the crops grow. The more we harvest, the more we get paid."
She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.
"I'd offer you my coat," I told her, "but I don't have one."
"It's okay. I'm home anyway."
I put my hands on her upper arms, only to help warm her, but before either of us knew what was happening, I had pressed my lips against hers. She melted into the kiss, sliding her arms around me.
We pulled apart when the door banged open and her mother stormed onto the porch. "Norma! Get in the house this instant! And you, get out of here!"
"Mom, it was just a kiss," Norma protested.
"That's how it starts and let me tell you something – kissing is not why his people have more children than they can afford!" Her mother glared at me. "You get off my property and stay away from my daughter, you piece of trash!"
I wanted to tell Norma I'd see her at school, but it seemed best just to stay silent and leave quickly. As I walked home in the rain, what she'd said sunk in. Was I really just trash? Is that what society thought of us? Is that why the rich and even the middle class tried so hard to keep us from succeeding?
The pouring rain soaked through my clothes and plastered my hair to my head. Umbrellas were luxury items. If only I had one…if only we had a lot of things. If only we had something – one item – that could do the job of a thousand. Norma's pink sweater popped into my head and I stopped on the side of the dirt road leading home as an idea slowly formed. One item, one product that could be many…if such a thing existed, it would be in high demand. Why, everyone would want one – I knew I would. To be able to buy something that could serve as an umbrella, a scarf, a bag, and numerous other things. Well, my mind said. That would be a fine something everybody needs.
A THing everybody NEEDs…a thneed.
I raced home eager to put my ideas on paper.
My mother thought it was a ridiculous idea. "Just like your father. You'll end up a failure if you insist on trying to make that…that…thing."
"Thneed," I corrected her.
I only told my family and Norma. I wasn't about to let my idea get stolen. Norma looked at my concept drawings with sparkling eyes. "This is a great idea. I'd patent this."
"You think?"
"Yeah. I'd definitely get one. What are you thinking of making it out of?"
"I don't know yet." I folded the paper and put it securely in my notebook. "Did your mom give you too hard a time?"
"She definitely yelled for a while. Said there were plenty of 'respectable' guys she'd rather see me with. I wonder what she would say if I told her the last 'respectable' guy I dated tried to feel me up. She shouldn't have called you trash."
"I'd never…you know. I have nothing to offer and you have a future ahead of you."
"I know. I've definitely decided none of that until after college. If I got in a family way it would derail everything."
"I don't want kids. I don't want to bring them up in the same situation I'm in."
"What if you end up successful at something? Like your invention?"
I shrugged. "Then I might change my mind, but I have a feeling it'll take time and maybe a miracle to see this thing become a reality."
Years later, I would think about Norma and wonder what her mother's reaction was when she saw a 'piece of trash' in a magazine article discussing the youngest billionaires in the world.
Norma and I did not stop seeing each other; we just had to be sneaky about it. Of course, with graduation coming up and the hours I worked on weekends time wasn't on our side. Her parents set her up with some guy from the country club to take her to prom. Even before they'd arrived at the gym, he'd tried making a move on her, telling her he'd marry her if she got pregnant. She ended up ditching him halfway through the night and meeting me in the woods behind the football field.
"Your date certainly sounds like an upstanding young man," I said sarcastically as we sat on a blanket looking at the stars.
"So many of these high society boys are like that. They think just because they have the means to provide we can just do it throwing caution to the wind. They expect all the girls to only want one thing – marriage and children. I do want those things, but at the right time with the right person. Before then, I want to go to college and get a job. I'd like to travel and go to concerts."
"Your life will be far more exciting than mine." I intertwined my fingers with hers. "You look beautiful tonight."
"Thank you. I didn't even want to go to the stupid prom. I'm happy sitting here under the stars with you."
Norma, for sure, was my first love and there are times I wonder what it would have been like if it had worked out…if we weren't from two different worlds. Staying true to our decisions – and I'm sorry if this disappoints you – our physical contact never went beyond kissing and that was fine.
Graduation came and I got my diploma – the first and only member of my family to do so. Mom attended and in her devoid-of-emotion way said she was proud of me. I knew she just couldn't wait for me to start work full time in the fields though. Norma insisted on getting a photo of us and gave it to me later in a frame. It was the first photo I'd ever had taken that we got to keep. They took school pictures every year, of course, but I never even got to see them – we never bought any to keep. We wouldn't even think of it.
We spent the summer together when we could, mostly just out enjoying nature. There were long walks at sunset and picnics in the woods. But always, always, always, we had to be discreet so her parents wouldn't find out. My mother didn't approve either. "She's out of your league, Oncie. And I better not hear about her expecting at all."
"Last I checked kissing didn't cause that."
Sometimes…sometimes I wish we had done it. It wasn't as if we didn't want to, it's just we knew better and decided to be smart about it. Yes, there was a pill that could have prevented pregnancy, but Norma didn't really want her mother snooping around and finding them. Plus, it was fairly new so what if it didn't actually work? Of course, there were other options, but neither of us were brave enough to go into a drug store and even look at them. It was a small town, too, so someone would have seen us buying products like that and word would have gone around like wildfire.
And then the crops at the farm ripened into a beautiful harvest, a chill found its way into the air and the leaves became tinged with yellow and red. Our summer was over and much too quickly, I was at the train station saying good-bye to Norma. Her parents were there, too and didn't look pleased, but what could they do at this point? She was leaving for college; I was staying behind.
"I'm really going to miss you," she sobbed, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "But I should be back next summer."
It didn't matter. We both knew this was the end of something…something that had been so beautiful and wonderful that we didn't want it to end. However, like a good book, it had to so a new story could begin. Losing someone, even to something as great as a bright future, is still hard. We held onto each other tightly until the last call for boarding was sounded. "You had better go," I said softly and gave her a gentle kiss.
And she did. Norma got on the train, which sped her away from me and toward her new life. I never really spoke to her again. Despite the fact her college was near Greenville, which is where I would eventually end up, our paths only ended up crossing – very briefly – a couple of times. One day I remember seeing her, three or four years later, through the double glass doors of my office that looked out at the disappearing valley below. She was there with a group of other young people – protestors – holding up signs and yelling about what an environmental hazard my factory was. Our eyes locked for a split second, only long enough to see the betrayal and hurt in hers before I turned away.
I heard later she did many of the things she wanted – including having a daughter, who grew up and got married to man named Wiggins. Years later, I would find a pair of familiar, unremarkable hazel eyes curiously staring at me in fear and wonder. But, you know that part of the story already.
The harvest that year was amazing. We'd had so much rain over the spring and into the summer that there was almost more produce than we could pick. The farm owners posted ads in town asking for workers to come help and they paid us more. We put money aside for winter when we wouldn't be working and were confident we would have enough to make it through this time – no March sorrow when it ran out and we couldn't afford to eat. No, we had food all winter long. Mom even managed to buy a chicken for Christmas dinner then told us for the first time in our lives, we could choose a gift. After Christmas, when things were on sale, we went to the pawn shop. I had half-hoped my dad's guitar was still there, but of course, that was many years ago and it had been sold. However, they did have a guitar – a black and white one that wasn't very expensive at all. I spent a good portion of that winter plucking the strings and learning how to play again.
The money lasted into April…and soon we wished we hadn't bought so many of those "sometimes" items and even a few "luxuries". Unlike the April before, this one was dry…and so was May…and so was June. The sun beat down on the thirsty crops unrelenting, causing them to shrivel. The dirt was dry and wind blew dust all around. Ponds dried up, rivers reduced to a trickle, lake levels dipped low.
We were having a drought.
"We're in some big trouble, Oncie," Mom said as she sat at the table figuring numbers in her head.
Weren't we always? Even with both of us working full time and my brothers on the weekends, it had been not only a miserable summer as we struggled to keep some of the crops alive but a horrible fall as we picked the meager harvest we'd been able to grow. We finally got rain in October, but it was too late. Now we were in winter – another cold, starving winter. I thought Mom would make me pawn the guitar I'd been able to buy a year ago, but she'd never said anything. Wordlessly, she slid a piece of paper over to me.
My eyes widened as I read the notice from the bank that if we didn't start making house payments they would foreclose. "Mom, this is serious. We have to have a place to live."
"I'm considering writing to your aunt and uncle and seeing if they can help somehow."
I hardly ever heard her talk about Uncle Ubb and Aunt Grizelda. They lived far away and were related on my father's side, but I knew they were better off than we were. The last time I'd heard from them was when they sent a card congratulating me on my graduation. That seemed like a long time ago. "Well, Bret and Chet will be eighteen in a month – I know they don't plan to finish school, so having them work full time will help."
I scanned the letter again and realized they weren't giving us a month. My eyes found the signature at the bottom – John Salas. He was CEO of the entire National Bank chain, the headquarters of which was in our hometown. "Why don't we talk to this guy and explain the situation? Maybe he can give us more time."
"They're not going to give us a break on this. He's rich and you know they don't care."
"Yeah and he's never going to find a buyer for this house. If it does, it'll be someone who wants to tear it down and use the property for something else. It can't hurt to just try – the worst he can say is no and then we'll hope Uncle Ubb and Aunt Grizelda are willing to help."
We managed to make an appointment with Mr. Salas for that Friday to discuss the situation. I went with Mom because, well, it was a different time when business was handled by men. I guess some women wear the pants now…not sure how I feel about that…I think I prefer them in skirts. The office we were shown into was larger than our house and we sat in leather chairs across from a dark wood desk from behind which Mr. Salas smiled at us. He was somewhere around fifty with brown hair and thin mustache above his lip. "And what brings you here today?"
"We received a notice from you that if we don't come up with our house payment, we'll be evicted," I started. "Sir, we've paid faithfully up until this year. Because of the drought we weren't able to make as much money."
"Unfortunately, I don't control the weather."
"I understand that, but neither do we. We can hardly afford to eat right now, but my brothers are turning eighteen in a month right when farm work will pick up again. With four full-time incomes, we can pay this, but not in two weeks."
"I appreciate your situation, but I'm a businessman, not a philanthropist. You have two weeks."
Mom interjected. "Please, Mr. Salas, we're…we're desperate. I'll do anything for this…anything."
The way she emphasized that last 'anything' I knew what was on her mind. To think my mother was that terribly desperate to stay in our shack. But, we hadn't yet heard from my aunt and uncle. We didn't know if help was coming. We didn't know if we were going to be, not only starving and cold, but homeless in two weeks.
"Anything?" Mr. Salas repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Yes, it was a desperate situation, but inwardly, I begged my mom not do it. Come on, I wanted to tell her. Have some decency and respect for yourself.
"Yes," Mom said, her hands clenching together tightly. "I would do anything for my children."
"Surely you know I'm a married man, Mrs. Onceler." His eyes flickered over to me. "How old are you?"
"Nineteen, why?"
Mr. Salas smiled again and put his pen down. "As I said, I'm married, but sometimes I like to enjoy the company of young men."
Mom didn't hesitate in her response. "Done."
It took a second to dawn on me – it wasn't my mother he wanted. "Hell no!"
"I thought you were willing to do anything to save your house."
"Not that!" It wasn't openly talked about, but I'd heard people whisper and tell stories about what some men did together. The thought of doing that with him – with any man – repulsed me.
"Then I'm afraid I can't help you."
My mother leaned in, taking a hold of my sleeve and whispered. "Oncie, you need to think about the family right now. I know it's asking a lot, but do you want us out on the streets?"
I put a hand to the side of my mouth so he couldn't tell what we were saying. "Do you understand what he wants with me?"
"Yes, and if we end up homeless, there's probably a lot more of that kind of thing in your future."
"No."
She squeezed my shoulder. "Son, please, for once in your life, stop being so selfish and greedy."
"Do you realize what you're asking me to do?" I loved my mother, I really did, but sometimes she was such a manipulative bitch.
She pressed her lips together in thin line and nodded, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Please. If you love this family, you will do this."
Damn it. I sat upright in the chair and took a deep breath before looking at Mr. Salas. "Okay. I'll…I'll do it."
Mr. Salas picked up his pen and wrote something on a piece of paper. "You're a good son. Meet me tonight at six and we'll arrange a deal."
I accepted the paper, which had the name of a hotel and a room number written on it. What would his wife think if she knew? I silently followed my mother as we walked home in the bitter cold. As soon as we were inside, she handed me the water bucket. "Go get some water from the well."
It seemed no matter how cold it got, the well never froze at least. This was good, because we didn't have running water inside the house. As I pumped the water, I thought about what I'd be doing that night. Dear God in heaven what had I agreed to?
When I brought the water in, my mother put it in a big pot on the stove – she had different sized pots on every burner. Then she tried to turn it on. No gas…we couldn't pay the bill. "You're just going to have to take a cold bath then, I guess."
Oh, that's what the water was for? She pulled the metal tub out to the middle of the bedroom and bucket by bucket we filled it with cold water. "I don't have any shampoo, so you're just going to have to wash your hair with soap."
What else was new? After she left, I dipped myself in the freezing water and scrubbed my skin and hair clean. Too bad, maybe if I wasn't clean, Mr. Salas would change his mind and I'd get out of it. Shivering as I climbed out, I wrapped myself in a blanket that we used as a towel…and a blanket. I was tired of being so poor. I thought again about my idea for a thneed. It could be used as a towel, too, if I ever found the right material for it. I'd made a couple of prototypes, but nothing seemed to work perfectly yet.
There was a knock at the door. "You decent?"
I sat on the bed, wrapped up and huddled in the blanket. "Yes."
Mom came in and placed a folded outfit next to me on the bed and a shiny pair of shoes on the floor.
"Where did you get those?"
"They were your father's. I was saving them for something special – maybe your wedding day. I won't have you going there looking shabby, so put them on."
What did it matter? He wouldn't care what I looked like. I put on the clothes much fancier than anything I'd ever worn – a white shirt, gray vest and two-toned gray pants. Even the polished shoes fit perfectly. I looked at myself in the mirror and while I was definitely handsome in the clothes, my only thought was of how I'd wear them for all of two seconds in that hotel room before they were ripped off.
As Mom combed my hair and trimmed it a bit, all I could think about was how tousled and mussed it would get rubbing against a pillow. I felt sick at the thoughts. What if he hurt me? What if he were into more twisted things than just sleeping with another man? What if he went back on his deal afterward?
"There," Mom said, putting the comb down. "You look great."
I was being prepared like a sacrificial lamb to the slau…no, like a virgin to a ritual sacrifice and I much would have preferred being thrown into a volcano. This was going to be my first time ever and it was with a man more than twice my age. It wasn't as if I was saving myself for marriage necessarily, but I did always think it would happen with the right person at the right time…with someone I loved…with someone female! Prostituting myself to a man to save our rickety old shack was not the scenario I had envisioned. No, this was not even in my realm of possibilities.
"I really appreciate you doing this, Oncie," Mom told me.
I had no reply. My own mother had sold me and I had nothing to say to her. I left before my brothers came home to make the long, cold walk back into town. I really didn't want them asking questions. It would be best if they never knew about this. I found the fancy hotel with no problem – I'd passed by it several times before, but had never been inside.
I didn't stop by the front desk. I just tried to be invisible as I took the elevator to the top floor and found the room number of the suite where he was staying. With a trembling hand I knocked. What was I doing here? There was still time to turn around. I could still…
The door opened.
Damn.
Mr. Salas stood there still dressed in his business suit, cocktail in hand and gave me a smug smile. His eyes scanned up and down my body. "Come in, young man."
It took a moment for my legs to work as I wanted nothing more than to run in the other direction. I jumped and my heart pounded as the door closed behind me and the lock clicked like a crack of doom. I gazed around the hotel suite, which seemed almost bigger than our entire house. So this was how rich people could live – able to stay in a place away from home. I wondered how big his house was.
He slid an arm around my shoulders. "I honestly didn't know if you would show up."
I didn't answer. I didn't look at him.
"You're shaking. Is it too cold in here?" When I shook my head, he continued. "You're scared. Don't worry, that doesn't come until later. I figured you'd be hungry, so I had some food brought up for us. I'm not the kind of person to simply push you into bed as soon as you get here. I know how to treat my guests."
Rich people could do that? I had never eaten anything that my mother didn't make or that I didn't cook myself, except at the picnics I sometimes shared with Norma. He led me to a table where two plates were waiting expectantly for us to devour the steak, vegetables and potatoes on them. You might think I was so nervous I wouldn't be able to eat anything. Maybe for someone else that would be true, but hunger is powerful. After months of having pretty much just enough to survive, a whole meal was more than welcome.
It was definitely awkward sitting with him, having dinner with this guy who at some point was going to go to bed with me. I didn't look at him; I just kept my eyes on my plate as I cut the steak into bite sized pieces.
"You certainly do clean up nicely," he said to me.
"Thank you."
"And I don't mean to sound like a jerk, but your manners are quite polished. You could almost pass for a gentleman."
"Just because one is poor, Mr. Salas, doesn't mean they can't be well-mannered." Despite the ravenous hunger, I ate slowly, savoring every delicious bite. It was my first time ever having steak and it was juicy and heavenly, the marbled fat lending it flavor as it practically melted on my tongue. Besides, the longer I took to eat hopefully meant the longer it would be before I had to do what I'd come here for.
"So, why are you working on a farm?"
I sipped my water before answering. "Because it puts food on the table…usually."
"My nephew went to the same high school you did and graduated with you. If I remember correctly, you graduated with honors, so why aren't you in college? No ambition?"
"No money, Mr. Salas. That's what makes the world go around, right? Well, when you don't have any, your world is stuck exactly where it is. The truth is, I got accepted; I had a scholarship and then reality set in. I couldn't leave my family for four years, looking ahead to a time when a degree might be of use. I had to work so we didn't starve. We're starving anyway and now we're about to be homeless. And you're able to afford a hotel room bigger than our house and food I've only ever dreamed of eating and…" Dread settled in my mind again. "...and something else you'll get tonight that should never be sold."
"So, you hate the rich?"
"Yes. We're looked down upon as if we can't do anything right and the wealthy are exalted and praised while they're far more corrupt than poor people." I sighed as I rested my fork and knife on the now empty plate. "The worst part is…I wish I had all this, too. I'm smart, I really am. I have great ideas I could make into reality – one in particular I just know is going to take off. But I'm stuck here because I have no means to travel, no means to find the perfect material to make my invention a reality and actually sell it. If I only had the opportunity I know I could go out there and make something of myself. The problem is, when you're poor, no one believes in you. I just want a chance to prove them wrong."
"What kind of invention?" He must've seen my reluctance to tell him. "I'm a banker, pretty boy, not an inventor. You don't have to tell me the specific details, just an overview will do and I'll let you know if it's worth pursuing."
So, I gave him a quick explanation of the thneed and what I hoped it could do and how it might be able to change the world. "I just need to find the perfect material for it."
Mr. Salas gave an approving nod. "That sounds like one hell of a product. Between you and me, especially if you're looking for something natural, Truffula tuft is very versatile."
I had heard of Truffula Trees, but they didn't grow where I lived, so I'd never even considered that option. I made a mental note to research more into it.
He reached out and put a hand on my arm. "I'll tell you what, you be a good sport about this tonight and might be persuaded to believe." He leaned in, inches from me. "I can be a very generous man when I want to be."
I looked away, furious at my mother and our circumstances for putting me in this situation.
"If you're difficult, I may not be so giving. I hope you realize that when you sell something, it no longer belongs to you, which means tonight, your body belongs to me. I can and will do whatever I want with you and you have no right to tell me to stop. If you do as I say and agree with me and don't argue, then we won't have a problem. If you tell me 'no' or push me away or try to fight me off, then you risk going home with nothing. Do you understand?"
My heart was racing and I tried to keep my voice from breaking by whispering. "Is there anything else I can do? Please…I'll do anything else."
Mr. Salas rubbed my arm and covered my trembling hand with his. "Is this your first time with a man?" After I nodded, he continued cautiously as though he wasn't sure. "This isn't your first time ever, is it?"
"Yes." I hoped he would be merciful and understanding. Maybe he'd let me out of this.
"I'm honored. Just remember what I said about being good for me and I'll be as gentle as possible with you."
No…no, I wasn't getting out of this.
"Would you like something to drink to calm your nerves?"
I nodded. I'd never even tasted alcohol, but something told me I wanted to be drunk for this. No, I needed to be drunk for this.
He got up and returned with a glass full of ice and gold liquid. He set it on the table. "Whiskey, but before you even take a sip, I want one kiss while you're still sober."
Even that request sickened me and I'd later find out that actual prostitutes never kissed their clients. It was considered too intimate. And sex wasn't? He had me sit on his lap and my heart pounded nervously as he pressed his lips against mine. I clenched my hands to keep from pushing him away and struggled as his arms slid around me, thinking only of how I was doing this to ensure my family had a place to live. One tear…I was allowed one and let it slide down my cheek as his tongue invaded my mouth. I didn't know him. I didn't like him. I didn't want him so close.
After what seemed like forever, he pulled away. "You really do need a drink, don't you?"
It took everything in me not to walk out of the room right then. "That is the only way this will happen."
Mr. Salas picked up the glass and handed it to me. "Cheers, then."
It smelled strong like turpentine and burned as it went down. After that first sip, I simply gulped it just to get it done and over with. It settled in me, melting my insides and I waited for it to take effect.
He poured me another glass of whiskey and I devoured it, wanting to remember nothing of this night.
This is why I would never drink again.
In retrospect, two glasses of whiskey was a bad idea. He had to help me to the bed since I could hardly walk. He lay me back against the pillows and kissed me. I was too drunk to lift my arms and stop him. I tried to mentally put myself elsewhere, but as he undid the buttons on my vest and my mind said 'no', that was hard. I tried to imagine it was a girl – maybe Norma – kissing me, but his facial hair scratching my skin made that impossible.
"There's not much to you, is there?" Mr. Salas asked as his hands slid into my now open shirt, fingers dancing along my ribs like they were piano keys.
I shook my head, which still swam with whiskey. My tongue felt heavy and I couldn't say anything.
"I should have never given you that second glass. You're quite the lightweight."
My eyes blinked closed and my head fell to the side. I felt his hands, his lips, heard his words. "Does that feel good?"
My mind was screaming. Inwardly, I was cussing him out and telling him to stop – that I did not want to do this. In my ideal scenario of how this played out, I hauled off and punched him violently before leaving the room. Outwardly, the drink made me unable to fight it, unable to even speak and my hands felt strangely numb.
"How about that?"
Stop!
"You're so pretty."
Don't!
"You like this, don't you?"
No! I couldn't even vocalize anything and only a sigh of defeat escaped my lips. I honestly don't remember anything after that. The next thing I do remember was waking up in the middle of the night with his arm draped over me. I moved it and slid out of bed. I staggered to the bathroom where the light was so bright it hurt my eyes as I turned it on. Closing the door and leaning against the cool wood, I sighed. There was a mirror to the side of me up above the sink, but I couldn't look at myself. I felt sick and made it to the toilet just in time.
A knock at the door. "You okay in there?"
"Fine…" I managed to say weakly.
"Come back to bed, pretty boy."
No…I couldn't…not again. But I had to. What did it matter at this point?
I wish I could tell you more…it would be convenient to say I don't remember…but I do. I do remember. I remember all the things I wish I could tell you, but are too personal to tell anyone. I had been kicked off of porches, looked down upon, doubted and given dirty looks…this was the first time I'd ever felt absolutely worthless.
I've spent years trying to forget and when I do remember, I try and convince myself that I consented to it. 'Consensual violation' I call it…as if that even makes sense. Consent is a funny thing. Is it consent if at first you say yes, but then you're so drunk you can't move? Is it consent when your mind is continuously screaming for it to stop, but you're too scared to say anything? Is it consent when the only reason you're there is stop another terrible something from happening? Was it consent when circumstances had forced me into a corner and there was nothing – NOTHING – I could do, but sleep with him in hopes that he'd forgive our debt. The legality of it was pretty black and white – I had agreed to it and though the words 'no' and 'stop' crossed my mind, they never understandably passed my lips. I didn't fight; I didn't intentionally push him away. Legally, it wasn't a crime against me. In my mind though, I knew what it was and I couldn't bring myself to even think of the word...I still can't. A woman would have a tough time getting sympathy…a man, well, THAT doesn't happen to men.
The next morning, the sunlight hurt my eyes and my head was pounding. My mouth felt so dry and I didn't want to move. So this was a hangover…why did people choose to drink, again? Mr. Salas was in front of the mirror, fully dressed and putting his tie on. Where the hell were my clothes?
"Finally awake, pretty boy?" He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Reaching out, he stroked my hair gently. "I was very pleased with you last night."
This meant I'd earned my family the house, but it did nothing to ease the trauma. "Thank you, sir."
"I would gladly pay to do this again. Would you like that? Earn a little extra for your family?"
Anger stirred in my mind again and I pulled away from his touch. He'd bought me for a night – it was now day. "I am not a common prostitute, Mr. Salas! I have morals and I would never do that!"
He chuckled, clearly amused. "If you're going to enter the world of business, pretty boy, you'd better get rid of those morals." Mr. Salas squeezed my shoulder. "You can use the shower if you want."
Good idea. The thought of going home and taking a cold bath was unappealing. As I finally gathered the courage to look in the mirror, I saw my once neat hair was messed up and I had marks all over my neck where his mouth had been. I touched my cheek where he had hit me, wincing as my fingers probed the bruised flesh. I was disgraced…shamed…and turned away from the mirror in disgust wanting nothing more than to wash away his scent and touch.
It was my first time ever using a shower and the hot water felt like heaven. The shampoo and soap they provided smelled divine. I could get used to something like this if ever given the chance. I scrubbed my skin hard as though trying to wash away the shame though I wondered if anything could truly erase the stench of the sinful ways he'd played with me. When I was done, I dried myself off with a fluffiest towel I had ever felt. It was unnerving having Mr. Salas watch me pick my clothes up off the floor and get dressed as he sat at the table, smoking a cigarette. I tried to avoid looking at the bed with its rumpled sheets stained with spots of blood…my blood.
When I was finished, he beckoned me over with his hand. "Sit down, pretty boy."
I did so, in the same seat where I had eaten the night before. I kept my hands in my lap, refusing to look at him. My eyes flickered over to papers, neatly folded and laying on the table.
"I want to thank you for your company last night. I've brought with me the deed to your family's house and it's yours if you want. However, as I said, I can be very generous when I want to be, so I'm prepared to make you a new deal." He slid another piece of paper onto the table. It was a check for more money than I had ever seen at one time. It was a drop in the bucket to him and within a year's time, it would be to me too. At the time though, it was enough that we could have caught up on at least some of the house payment, or maybe found another place to rent, perhaps even with some left over for food or warmer clothes. "Though I was mostly pleased, I had a few disappointments with you as well, so you may take one. Either the house so you can go back to your family and your life on the farm. Or, you can take the check and have your chance to prove me and all the other rich bastards out there wrong."
I knew what I should do, after all, my family needed the house – we required shelter. But…but that money…oh, that money! What I could do with all that. My mother's voice resounded in my head – "think of the family", "selfish", "sacrifice for the family", "greedy", "greedy", "greedy". Those things I'd constantly been told – to not think of myself, but of the family. I felt it, an actual snap in my mind as colors of green danced across my eyes. If I was going to be greedy, I was going to be the greediest bastard my mom had ever seen. I reached out my hand and pointed to the check.
"I thought as much." Mr. Salas scribbled my name on the check when I told him what it was and handed it to me. "Don't disappoint me. Work on that 'morals' thing. And whatever you do, don't think this will buy you happiness."
I'd just cost my family our house, but I'd gained my future. Later I would go home and tell my mother Mr. Salas had gone back on his deal. Her look of devastation would almost make me want to share the money with them…almost…but no. It was MINE. She asked if he had hurt me. I simply nodded my head yes. She pressed me for details.
"I'm really not up for giving you a play-by-play of everything that happened," I told her. Those were the last words I'd speak to anyone for four days. I almost felt bad for her and it almost made me want to share the money with my family…almost. I didn't. I'd like to say it helped, but it really didn't erase the deep feelings of shame in my mind. My brothers thought the marks on my neck were from some woman and tried to congratulate me or make fun of me in a playful way. I never told them, so unless Mom did, they still don't know what happened.
I'd keep those feelings for a long time and would never be one to take something so precious casually. Despite the rumors people tried to circulate, I was never a player. I took beautiful women to galas, held their hands, but never even kissed one, much less took one to bed.
It would eventually happen for me – with my otherworldly beauty – the night I unzipped her chiffon dress letting it pool like water around her ankles. It happened when I kissed her passionately with lips that had recently spoken vows of undying love. It happened when her perfectly manicured fingers slid the gloves from my arms and ever so gently kissed the scarred flesh of my left hand where just hours earlier she had placed a gold ring. It happened when it was right and beautiful and absolutely perfect.
That decision I made…to betray my family…that haunted me even more the events of that night. If I hadn't done it, I'd still be stuck there probably. All of this – everything I have now – I pretty much owe to that decision. Sometimes I think it would be better to just be poor again instead of carrying around that guilt and hating myself. Mr. Salas was right…money did not make me happy.
I'd see him again at a winter gala about four years down the road and all those memories and feelings would surface again. He did see me succeed and saw me make something of myself. However, what I'd had to do to earn the money to start out with still haunted me. What he didn't see was my business partnership with a young bank owner who happened to run the bank rivaling his. He was thirty or so and told me that Mr. Salas had also "helped" him. What Mr. Salas didn't see were two savvy, much more powerful men working against him and before he knew it, he was blindsided and his empire collapsed to be taken over the younger bank owner. In fact, I later heard the last thing he ever saw was a single bullet being loaded into a revolver so he could play Russian roulette with himself. He lost.
As it turned out, we never ended up homeless. My mom's letter must've reached my relatives because they showed up three days before we were to be evicted. Aunt Grizelda was hardly a peach, complaining about what a dump our house was and asking how my mother could have raised us here all these years. Uncle Ubb was short on words, but gave us all hugs and told us we could come live with them for as long as we needed to.
I wasn't sad to leave, especially considering what I'd done so my family could keep the house. Even more so, what I did to ensure we lost it. That check still weighed heavily in my pocket and no one knew I had it. They wouldn't know I had any money until the day I pulled up in front of my aunt and uncle's house with a new wagon and mule named Melvin. Even then, I told them I'd won it gambling. My mother eyed my skeptically, likely wondering what I had to gamble with, but said nothing.
I pulled out my old ideas for my thneed. I was going to take the chance. On an April day, shortly before turning twenty, I packed up the wagon with items Uncle Ubb said I could have and hugged my family goodbye.
"Well, here I go, Mom, off to change the world with my thneed."
"Yes, but just remember, Oncie, if somehow your invention turns out a failure instead of a success, well…it wouldn't surprise me at all!"
Typical Mom. It didn't matter that she seemed uncaring or that my brothers teased me about my wagon. I'd miss my family. However, this was it – I was actually doing it! I clicked Melvin's reins and as he started pulling the wagon, I waved to my family. I don't know if they waved goodbye also because I didn't turn around. I was moving forward and seizing my destiny. The one thing I wasn't going to do was look back.
~Fin~