Length: 2200 words
Tense: past
POV: 1st
Well, this story marks the half-way point. I think it's also going to mark a turning point in the stories. I've done some weird things, certainly, but I think it has all more or less held together - after today, it is going to go wild. So get prepared. And enjoy one more traditional, albeit old-fashioned in style, story.
But ah, you say, who’s that in the picture, tall jacket, puffing the last dregs of a cigar beneath the streetlight. We call him Mr. K—. Certainly, neither his first nor his last name begins with that letter, nor, I suppose, does his middle – indeed, when he was first dubbed so, or why, I cannot relate. Before he came to our town, Mr. K— was a politician who did some job or another for Los Angeles County – a minor dignitary carrying one of those positions more notable in name than effect. He was a rather unpopular politician, I daresay, and I believe it was the public that drove him out of his office and out of his county, to the farmlands of the south. He lived some time near Murrieta, on a ranch just north and east of the hills, and rumor would grant him some wife or some other mistress for perhaps a spell. Certainly, he came into our town alone, and never showed any inclination towards courtship or marriage.
Mr. K— had a fondness for children. Some would claim his wife or mistress was infertile, and moreover that she was wholly in denial about it, therefore most adamantly opposed to the prospect of adoption – yet others suggest that she herself had no desire for a pregnancy, and took means to ensure such an end, these means, the same people conjecture, must have eventually terminated a life more than the child’s – for indeed Mr. K— came alone and spoke neither of a wife nor of a mistress, nor gave any indication to hint that one might have lived. Undoubtedly the lack of children in his innermost life nurtured a deep longing that only strengthened as his solitude increased. I would not paint Mr. K— as a sociable man, as far as other men are concerned, nor as he was concerned with the ladies, yet he had in his laugh a silver pearl that ensnared the young ones – they followed him more readily than their own mothers, and he is never without their company. I have seen Mr. K— play with the children – he indulges them in every way, though never to excess, and is both willing and permitted to take part in their imaginary pastimes. He is quite a figure, indeed, hunched dog-like in his tight, ironed suit, with laughing kids on his back like ants, but in this manner his eccentricity only adds to his charm.
Mr. K—’s favorite was a youngster named Tom. Tom was not particularly brighter than the other kids, nor necessarily more mischievous, nor, indeed, did he carry any of those remarkable qualities so valued by kids of a certain age, which might make one shine out above the rest, yet from the beginning there was seldom a ploy or an errand into which young Tom could not wheedle his surrogate. Mr. K— could be quite strict when the other kids forgot their place, or crossed his bounds, but never Tom. The kids could fall in and out of his favor, and would sometimes, on account of poor behavior, be rejected the much-adored invitations to his house, made up on elegant gold stationary and embossed with block letters done out in medieval style. Never Tom. Some of the kids believed that Tom helped write the invitations – I would not have doubted it – indeed, the young one spent a far greater number of his waking hours in the house of Mr. K— than in that of his own parents.
Tom, on his part, worshiped Mr. K— with an intensity that rivaled, and at times even surpassed, his own affections for his biological father. He grew to spend less time around those of his own mean age, and ever a greater time inside the house of his grown idol. He would still play with kids, indeed, though always through the medium of Mr. K—, and on the latter’s request, and certainly he found his play with the charming man far more engaging and satisfactory than any adventures alongside his fellow youngsters.
Tom’s parents objected, as far as word in form of rumors reached the ears of their abode, for through all this Tom never broached the matter of Mr. K— at dinner, and seldom related to anyone the details of his excursions. Tom’s parents addressed their objections firstly to Tom, who insisted that Mr. K— was as delightful as could be, that he would read to Tom, play games with him, take him to see his friends – in short, the sum of acts of which any worthwhile father should partake. Tom’s parents then addressed objections to Mr. K— himself, threatened him with legal action and such, but Mr. K— was a politician – he was charming, he agreed wholly and readily to their terms, and thereon pulled out of Tom’s life altogether, for a week or another, until Tom’s begging finally sufficed to deconstruct all barriers the parents had erected.
I do not know how these things begin. Nor, indeed, do I have much desire to delve into the workings of such degenerate hearts and corrupted minds. I can only imagine it, and then, when I do, images of horror fill me and impair the faculties of speech and reason. No, it is only the notion that is abhorrent, and therein lies my own conflict. There was no chase, no cold hands grabbing a child’s neck and throwing him to the floor, no strangled yell for help. If Tom was traumatized he did not show it, furthermore, I believe, his childish mind could not conceive of anything the least way wrong.
I can only imagine that the sexual aspect crept in gradually. Maybe a comment here or there, “It’s quite hot in this suit, do you mind if I take it off?” – no, that is absurd. I have no idea how these things progress. Tom was on the eve of puberty – he was worried, maybe, full of unanswered questions. Mr. K— was engaged in some Freudian conviction, I suppose, for it was not harshness, nor utter depravity, but a longing. You could see it in his eyes during the affair – call it an affair, wanting a better word.
I do not know when it began. I suspect no one in the town can tell you. The only two who knew are long gone now, one dead and the other somewhere south of the border, the rumors would say. Maybe it began when Tom’s parents finally gave him leave to return to Mr. K—, when a week’s worth of sexual tension had found time to accumulate. I imagine Mr. K— now, thrashing in bed, unable to stop the flow of horrific dreams, impulses, inexplicable urges. When he was around Tom, he could relieve himself, fantasize harmlessly while the kid’s warm body lay against his own. It was the absence that drove out the desire, mutated it, corrupted it into something monstrous – but this is only speculation. It might have started long before, maybe it was the basis of their relationship, of Mr. K—’s favoritism, I do not know. It certainly became more outward following Tom’s return, and elevated to a new level of what the town could only call depravity.
It was Dr. Jacobs who first became aware of it. He saw the signs, perhaps; maybe he had dealt with pedophiles before. Certainly he was alarmed, and raised a frightful row at the parents’ house. I heard it from my backyard next door. The parents did not believe. They had despised Mr. K—, afraid of him by virtue of that tantalizing prospect, that he might go too far, that his relationship with Tom might evolve into something greater and more sinister, and to this end they had sought all means to distance their son from his figure, until such means proved ineffective, and yet, throughout, it was a basis for fear only, a hypothetical that had no place in reality; now, when the evidence stood before them, they adamantly opposed it. It was something that might happen, something one took means to prevent, but there was no formula for living in its wake.
They took Tom aside – I heard them ask him, directly, “Tom, has Mr. K— been hurting you?”
“No, Ma. He ain’t. He the nicest man, ma. He gonna make me smart. He gonna make me s’essful.” S’essful, that’s how he said it. I may live to see many people and hear many things, but I doubt I shall ever forget the sound of that word. S’essful. He gonna make me s’essful.
“He’s not, Tom, there’s nothing wrong? It’s okay, my son. He can’t hurt you here.”
“He don’t hurt me, ma. He a nice guy, really. He teachin’ me good English. He got a good vocaboolry.”
“You’re safe with me, son,” Tom’s mother said softly. Such a simple declaration, and concerning it’s value my mind is today more in want of resolution than ever before.
And through all this it went on. Most of what I know, and indeed, the larger portion of the town’s collective knowledge of the affair, comes from a letter Tom left by Mr. K—’s door. He left the letter just after Mr. K— fled to Mexico, just before Tom ran off to wash up, a month later, bloated by the side if the river. This letter explained Tom’s his feelings for his father – indeed, that is the appellation he used, and it only made the whole thing worse in our minds.
der fathor, it began, i guna mis yu bad. yu mi lif tu me. i cant say whut yu meen tu me. yu evrething. yu beter than mi dad. i luv yu lik a dad. i luv yu rille rille vere much. and i cant say how i do. its that i cant rit. yu trid tu tech me tu rit. yu guna tech me tu rit and tu luv. i mis ar luving. u ar so kind. yu nevr get mad. i guna mis yu. i guna find yu in heven. i gona find yu and well luv and yu tech me riting.
That’s not all of it. It goes on like this, for some pages. Tom’s writing is quite small, for a boy his age. It goes on, and says pretty much the same thing, with pretty much the same amount of spelling errors. It never mentions sex, not explicitly. Mr. K— was the one who testified to that, just before he fled. It was the beginning of his trial, and he was requested to take the oath. Instead, he stood in the box and said, flatly, to judge Anderson’s face, “Indeed, ma’am, your accusations are correct, though they are but partial – you have accused me of doing once what I have done many times, and would freely do again, moreover your accusation makes no account of the circumstances surrounding the matter, and ignore completely your defendant’s feelings and the exercise of his own free will. If you refuse to let him speak, then I am afraid this courtroom is not the place for my story.” Thus saying, he hopped the jury box and launched himself out of the window. It was certainly one of the more dramatic moments in our town’s history, and frankly, one of the more humiliating. Judge Anderson has since learned to keep her window closed and locked while court is in session – but the story is only a diversion to facilitate the forgetting of the less charming matters surrounding it. They never caught Mr. K—; he was last seen driving south in his sleek black convertible.
During the trial Tom stood resolutely in the corner, watching Mr. K—. I do not think he understood any of the words uttered, nor the implications made. Certainly he got up and laughed when Mr. K— made his leap, and forthwith he clapped, a sound small but clear, drowned out by the general yelling that filled the court in that moment.
Tom sulked for a week afterward. He stood by Mr. K—’s door, behind the ropes of yellow tape, and eventually the investigators stopped trying to shoo him away. He waited. At some length he decided that Mr. K— was truly gone, and that was when he wrote the letter. What happened next is anyone’s guess – certainly no one saw him until he turned up a month later in the river, and then the town forgot all gossip for the new and juicy story – but I have related that much already. That answers your question, I should believe, and if at the end you feel unfulfilled it is certainly through no fault of mine. Why do I have a picture of him, here upon my dresser? I have a picture of everyone who has ever lived in this town; I am a bookkeeper and a historian. Indeed, you asked, I answered, and I can indulge you no further. My duty is finished.
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