Date: Wed, 24 Feb 2010 09:55:35 -0500
From: thorin@hushmail.com
Subject: The Raggedy Boy - Adult/Youth Section

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* Dislaimer: This story is purely fiction     *
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His legs pump hard as he races down the near sideline, the soccer
ball dancing in front of him. The turf churns up under his cleats;
but his foot fall is light. A defender comes up to try to force him
out and he slows; his right foot comes out ready to strike the ball
on the inside of his foot, then as the defender slows, he switches
and strikes the ball with the outside, abruptly changing direction
toward the center of the field. The defender whirls to the inside
to give chase, but is already many steps behind. Then with his eyes
still downfield, he dumps the ball off to his right to a teammate
streaking down the opposite sideline.

He is clearly the best player on the field, and that's not because
he's my son. He is one of the few players who can keep complete
control of the ball while never dropping his eyes from the players
around him. His footwork is like magic and he can make the ball
glide and spin without effort. He seems to have a sixth sense about
the others on the field, able to anticipate the next move of both
opponents and his own teammates. What's almost scary, however, is
the intensity of his play. He plays every moment of every game full
out. He's only been playing a year, when most of his teammates have
been playing three or more, yet coaches from the premier teams are
already stopping to watch.

Tawny brown would be the best way to describe him. His hair has
lightened from months in the sun. He reminds me of an otter; his
body is sleek but not thin. His coordination is incredible; his
body control is precise.

It came as a bit of surprise when he first stripped off his shirt
in public, joining his friends in the warm sun. He and I had talked
about the questions it would raise; the diagonal scars across his
back and the smaller round ones on his arms, usually hidden by his
long sleeve tee shirts, would, for once, be painfully visible. Most
adults would easily recognize them for what they were, but his
friends, naturally curious, would be bold with their questions. We
had talked about how to answer, about how to volunteer what he felt
comfortable with and to keep the rest private. And, exactly as
predicted, attention to his scars was brief and the group quickly
returned to whatever currently absorbs eleven and twelve year-old
boys.

He trots back upfield watching the movement of the ball and players
on the far side of the field. He is sweaty and his bangs are
plastered across his forehead, but his breathing is easy. There is
a clear bounce in his step. He closely watches the action, coiled
and ready should play come his way. Then he surprises me by looking
over to where my wife and I are sitting and a bright smile lights
his face. I have never seen him break concentration during a game
and it almost seems as if he knows that I am thinking of him; that
he is reading my thoughts.

It was a bit over a year ago that he first entered my life. It was
a day that all of our lives- mine, my wife's, and his, changed in
ways that none of us could have imagined. My wife and I were living
the sort of life that only couples without kids can live. Our time
was our own, free from recitals, games, and school science fairs.
We came and went as we pleased, taking off for long weekends with
complete spontaneity, only needing to remember to put out extra
food for the cat. We were childless by choice; agreeing long before
getting married that that would never change. The money that would
have gone to cribs, orthodontists, and school supplies, instead
bought hi-fi equipment, gourmet kitchen knives, and vacation
cruises.

**** ****

It was early spring, and a cold rain had been falling without
relent. I was tired, just finishing another ten hour stint on
patrol and was heading back to the station for a hot cup of coffee
and some final paperwork. The gathering gloom of evening added to
the gray and black of the landscape. My squad car splashed through
the damp cold streets when, rounding a corner, I swerved to avoid a
pile of debris in the gutter. I continued down the street wondering
whether I should turn back and move the bundle from the road.
Something about the size and shape bothered me, like it was
something I should pay more attention to. So, even though I was
cold and tired, I swung the car around and headed back.

The bundle proved to be a man, who, as I arrived, had picked
himself up out of the gutter and was stumbling up on to the
sidewalk, undoubtedly to spend the night curled up in the doorway
of one of the many closed shops. I stopped curbside and watched as
the figure stumbled away from the street. His walk was unsteady and
several times he almost fell. I turned on the spotlight mounted on
the side of the car just as he collapsed in a heap in the rain.
Discouraged at the thought of having to leave the comfort of the
car, I called into the station, and then, grabbing my Maglite and
sliding my baton into my belt, I stepped out into the rain.

"Hey my friend," I called, "you need help?" and approached the
figure on the ground, supplementing that patrol car's spotlight
with my oversized flashlight. Again, it seemed something wasn't
right, the bundle was too small. A small moan, more a cry,
confirmed my suspicions and I dropped my more cautious approach and
rushed forward. I knelt beside the person on the ground and,
pulling back a sodden grimy hoodie, I found myself staring into the
face of a young boy.

His face was ashen; his eyes, a rich dark brown, stared blankly. It
was impossible to tell the color of his hair as it was soaked
through as well as matted and greasy. His cheeks appeared hollow,
almost sunken in, and there were dark heavy circles under his eyes.
A quick touch of his cheek confirmed how cold he was. I scooped the
raggedy boy up off the ground, carried him to the car, wrapped him
in a blanket from the trunk, and, calling the station as I drove, I
rushed to the hospital.

I carried my soggy bundle into the emergency room, leaving my car
under the overhang that guarded the entrance. It was chaotic in the
lobby, which was no surprise for a weekend night. I pushed past the
reception room doors and made my way back to the ward room. The boy
had begun to stir in my arms, and that gave me a bit of hope. He
mumbled something I couldn't catch and squirmed a bit, but I held
fast. It took me a moment, given the bustle, but I eventually
caught hold of one of the staff, and, with his help, deposited the
boy on an empty gurney and wheeled him into an empty bed space.

We were joined almost immediately by one of doctors I knew well, a
short heavyset woman known for her no nonsense approach, but also
one of the more empathetic and caring of the emergency room staff.
I was pleased that it was she that took over the case as she had
always impressed me with her ability to work with those overwhelmed
by the chaos of emergency room care and the bewildering choices
they often faced.

With the boy unconscious, she turned to me to provide the
information she needed, but, other than indicating where I found
him, there was little more that I could add. In the meantime, some
warm blankets had begun to help and a far more healthy color had
returned to the boy's cheeks. I noticed his eyes had opened and
that he was looking at me. He looked to be about ten or eleven
years-old and his face still had the innocent angelic quality of a
preteen, but his eyes told a different story. His expression was
cold and hard. His eyes were full of suspicion and anger, and there
was a warning there, as well.

"Hey, my friend," I said, and added my best warm smile, but it had
no effect. It was clear there was would be no answer and the boy
shifted his gaze to the other staff. He took a moment to size up
each of us in turn and he then turned to look at me again. I
noticed his hand shift out from under the blanket and grasp the
rail of the gurney as if he wanted it in position should he needed.
He remained deeply suspicion and his eyes never moved far from me.

Dr. MacVean watched the boy silently for some minutes without
approaching. One of the staff moved forward to take basic vital
signs, but she quietly waived him off. Then, instructing one of the
staff to call social services, she pulled me aside.

With her prompting, I repeated the story of how I had found him,
adding more detail as she asked more questions. She glanced back at
the boy once or twice, clearly troubled by what she heard and saw.
Then, returning bedside, she directed the team to move the boy to
one of the back rooms, out of the din of the main trauma center and
into a private room. Then, as they began to wheel the boy away, she
turned back to me and said, "Nick, I think I'd like for you to come
as well."

Once isolated from the rest of the ward, Dr. MacVean dismissed all
of the staff except one nurse and me. I stood along one side of the
bed, while she stood on the other. The boy watched and listened
carefully and she introduced all of us. His eyes met all of ours as
she pointed to each of us and told him our names and what we did.
She made special mention of me and told the story of how I had
found him and brought him here. He watched me closely as she did,
but, despite my best smile, his expression never softened.

He laid quietly, the blankets pulled up protectively to his chest.
He watched the doctor carefully but silently. Gradually, as she
talked, his look softened and became less guarded. Then, with the
nurse and me looking on, the doctor began her examination.

She moved about him carefully, explaining each step and every
detail, allowing him to examine each instrument before using it.
She asked him a few basic questions, but he remained mute, and so
she continued to fill the silence in her own way.

"Now, sweetheart," she said, "I'm going to need to listen to how
your heart sounds and listen to how you breathe." The boy said
nothing and offered no resistance, so together, Dr. MacVean and I
pulled the filthy hoodie over his head.

"Now, let's peel this dirty shirt off," the doctor said, and,
although she moved her hands toward his waist, she carefully paused
and waited for his response. He regarded her with care, and then
reached down to help. She brushed his hands away and began to peel
the shirt up his torso, but she could make little progress as long
as he remained prone.

"Lift up a bit, honey," she said, unable to get the back of the
shirt to follow the front. He seemed to think about this for a
moment and then sat up in the bed. She continued to pull his shirt
up but stopped as he gave a sharp wince. At about the same time I
noticed a small amount of blood on the bedding that I called to her
attention. Proceeding more carefully, she pulled the shirt free
from his back and gently lifted it over his head.

What greeted us were half a dozen bloody welts that ran diagonally
across his back. They were fresh, no more than a few hours old, but
they were joined by a couple dozen more that were scarred over. We
also noticed that his arms were covered with dime sized round
scars; some fresh, some older. And, there was an extensive amount
of bruising on his belly. Several blows had turned his abdomen the
color of peanut butter and jelly.

A confused brew of feelings boiled inside. I was shocked, angry,
and feeling helpless all at once. Domestic violence calls are one
of the most frequent in the life of a police officer, but never had
I seen a boy so badly beaten. Then, with a nod and a glance, Dr.
MacVean drew my attention to his arms. Encircling each wrist, just
below the hand, was chafing that had broken through the skin and
also drawn blood.

If the boy had been silent before, he somehow seemed even quieter
now. Turning onto his side, he pulled his arms in and curled his
legs up, as if suddenly feeling the cold. I reached for the blanket
and pulled it up over him. My actions surprised him, and his eyes
darted to my face, appraising me once again. Then he appeared to
relax for the first time that evening, the tension in his body
subsiding and his breathing slowing.

His explosion, when it came, would catch everyone by surprise. Dr.
MacVean and the nurse had busied themselves cataloging the various
cuts, bruises, and abrasions. She carefully palpitated his belly,
watching his face closely as she did so to avoid causing the boy
further pain. The nurse used a small digital camera to add to the
medical record; the boy wincing with each flash. Then, after
listening to the boy's heart and lungs, the doctor reached for the
top of the boy's pants, and the snap and zipper that held them up.

The boy's reaction was immediate and violent; he sat forward
suddenly and his fists flashed out toward the doctor. There was a
moment of shock and we were each frozen in place. Then, as one, we
moved forward to restrain him. He resisted with ferocity, but he
was not thrashing about wildly. Instead, each kick and each punch
was deliberate. His blows were well aimed. He fought with
determination, with strength, and with desperation.

Capturing the flying arms and legs took longer than I imagined.
Each time he began to tire and we began to gain control, he seemed
to find him an extra burst of energy. He began to grunt from the
effort and his body glistened with sweat, but there were simply too
many of us and too little of him, and soon we had him pinned firmly
to the bed.

In that moment, when we finally gained control, he uttered a cry
like I had never heard before. It was the sound of complete and
utter despair and it carried with it an anguish and desperation I
had never heard before. It tore threw my Kevlar vest and pierced my
heart.

The cry seemed to have the same effect on each of us, and, as one,
we released the boy and stood back. The fighting stopped
immediately, and the boy fell back on the bed once more, panting
heavily with exhaustion; his eyes darting between us with surprise
and suspicion. The three of us stood rooted where we were, each
about one step back from the bed, trying to make sense of what had
just happened and deciding what to do next. Gradually his breathing
slowed, and, avoiding looking at each of us, he gathered the
blankets once again and pulled them tight to his chest.

When he had settled in, Dr. MacVean approached the bed rail
opposite me and spook soothingly. "Honey, look, I'm sorry. I made a
mistake. I forgot to tell you what I was doing and why it was
important. I promise you it won't happen again."

He stared at her sullenly, punishing her.

"Do you see Officer Richardson there on the other side of you?" she
went on. He continued to stare at her, not turning his head. "He's
been here for you the whole time. He's the one that found you and
brought you here, and he'll stay here and watch and make sure
you're safe. Is that alright?"

His eyes never left hers, but his hand slipped out from underneath
the blanket once again, and, after probing for an instant, he found
and grasped my wrist. His hand was warm and moist and his grip was
hard.

"Now," she said, "I need to check the rest of you. And, that means,
I need to get you to slide off your pants and underwear. It's only
the three of us here and I promise that no one else will come in."

He stiffened at this news and I felt his hand tighten on my forearm.

"I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to," she added, "but if I'm
going to help you get better, I need to know about all the places
that you may be hurt."

She slid the blankets gently down to the top of his thighs,
watching for the slightest objection. We saw, for the first time,
that his free hand grasped the top of his jeans tightly, the
knuckles white from the effort. The doctor placed one of her hands
on top of his and cupped it warmly.

"May I," she asked gently, and, at that, the boy's hand slid away
and grasped the railing on the side of the bed. At the same time he
turned his head away from me and stared blankly at the far wall.

With the help of the nurse, the doctor slowly unfastened the boy's
pants and slid them off his legs. His underwear, what little
remained, was in tatters. In fact, it was easier to snip the
waistband and pull them free than to try to pull them down his
legs. They were grey, almost black, they were so dirty. His legs
were free from bruising as was his groin, and for a moment I grew
hopeful that he had escaped what I feared most.

The doctor careful examined his genitals, legs, and feet, and
seemed to find little to add to the information being charted. Then
with a sigh, she gentle placed one hand under the back of each knee
and lifted them both gently upward and out. I am not sure what she
saw, there was no gasp or cry; she only blinked hard once or twice
and called softly for an assault kit.

The boy never flinched during the next half hour; no cry came from
him, not the tiniest murmur, but, his face, still turned away from
me, spoke loudly. The muscles were pinched tightly together and
large soft tears began to pour from his eyes. The hand that gripped
my forearm tightened and I was amazed at the strength of his grip.
I covered the boy's hand with my own, willing comfort and strength
through it and into him, but I also knew that there was no way to
relieve him of his pain and no way to provide him with the peace he
so desperately deserved.

Sometime later I was still by his side. He was sleeping now,
dressed in a standard hospital gown and covered with fresh warm
blankets. His hand had slipped from my arm as the sedative lulled
him to sleep. The doctor, who had come and gone several times, had
returned and stood silently by my side.

"You know officer," she began, her eyes on the sleeping figure,
"I'm as left leaning in my politics as they come. I hug trees, save
whales, and recycle everything that I can. I'm probably one of the
biggest opponents of the NRA that you'll find... but, I want to ask
you a favor." Her voice softened a bit, but an edge crept in at the
same time. "Officer, if you ever find the low-life bastard that did
this, I want you to take that big black pistol from your holster
there, and I want you to ram that big gun as far up his ass as it
will go and I want you to fire off two rounds; one for me, and one
for this boy."

There were tears in her eyes as she finished, and she gathered up
her charts and headed for the door.

There was no reason for me to stay and I knew I should return to
the station and then home. Detectives would be down soon to gather
whatever evidence might be found and to try their best to interview
the boy. It had grown quite late, yet I hated to leave. Finally, I
knew there was one more thing I could do. It would be a small
gesture, but I knew that it would be appreciated all the same.
Rummaging through the pile of sodden clothes gave me the
information I needed and, less than 30 minutes later, I was back
with fresh clothes from one of the 24 hour stores that are never
far away.

The boy was still asleep and the nurse suggested we take advantage
of the moment and slip on the sweatpants and tee shirt I had
bought. But, although I knew so little about the young man in front
of me, I knew that was a mistake. So, instead, I waited. And, while
I waited, I took four of my department business cards from my
pocket, and, carefully writing my home telephone number on the back
of each, I slipped one into each front pocket of the two pair of
jeans I had bought.

When he finally came around, I showed him the clothes I had bought,
and, with his permission, I helped him into clean underwear, new
sweatpants, a clean tee shirt, and warm woolen socks. I stayed with
him until he fell asleep again.

***** *****

It was about a week later that I found myself in the hallway of the
crowded station during shift change confronted by a small, grey-
haired woman. She was dressed in a calf length dress that was
covered by a smart, but conservatively cut jacket, both the same
color as her hair. It was all topped by a grey coif that marked her
as a nun. She called to me by name, stopping me as I made my way
from the briefing room to my car. She introduced herself as Sister
Anna and as a county social worker.

"I'm here to talk to you about Mark," she said; her voice crisp and
business-like.

"I'm sorry sister," was my reply, "you have me confused. Who's
Mark?"

"Mark, Officer Richards, is the boy you picked up off the street
last week and brought to the hospital."

My heart leapt. I had been asking each day at the station for news,
but he seemed to have disappeared into the child welfare system. I
did have a brief discussion with the detectives assigned to the
case, but their focus was on the perp and not on where the boy had
ended up. Their person of greatest interest was the boy's father
who had disappeared the same day I found Mark.

"How is he?" I asked; the first of many questions that wanted to
tumble out all at once.

"You gave him your home phone number, didn't you," she said,
ignoring my question. "Why?"

Her question took me aback; I wasn't exactly sure why I had done
that. And so I answered honestly, "I'm not sure. I guess I cared
what happened to him. I guess I hoped I'd get a call one day and I
would hear that he was doing OK."

She stared at me for a time, the silence making me squirm. "And, if
he calls..."

I paused and thought it through for probably the first time. "If he
calls it would be great," I answered. I was embarrassed by an
answer so weak, but I could think of nothing else to add.

Again, I felt the penetrating stare. It made me feel uncomfortable,
almost as if she could see inside and knew everything I was
thinking; as if she could see every bad thought and misdeed I'd
ever done and I was embarrassed by the exposure. Then she gave a
quick nod, as if I'd passed some critical examination, then turned
and walked away.

About halfway down the hall, she suddenly turned back. "Officer,"
she said, "Mark has held onto those cards you gave him as if they
were gold. If you disappoint that boy, if you're not there when he
needs you, I will personally come down here and kick your ass." And
with that, she turned and strode down the hall, her flat heeled
black shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum. I suddenly noticed
the silence in the once busy station as my colleagues stopped to
watch the exchange.

It is almost a week later when the call came. It was my day off and
I was relaxing on the back porch while the grill slowly began to
heat up. The grass was freshly mown and I was perspiring slightly
in the warm sunshine of late spring. Nancy was beside me and we
talked about plans for the next day. Then phone suddenly rang and I
picked up the handset absentmindedly.

"Hello!" I said, not sure who to expect or what the call might be
about. There was silence on the other end. I could hear a
connection, and so I repeated my greeting. Still there was silence.
I was about to say something angry when I paused and listened more
closely, and in that moment I swore I could hear the soft soprano
breathing of a young boy.

"Mark?" I said, and I was sure that I heard a slight catch in the
breathing on the other end. "Mark, buddy, it's great to hear from
you," I said, Nancy looking at me quizzically. Remembering the boy
from that evening in the hospital, in particular his persistent
silence, I began to fill the void. I chatted about my day, about
mowing the lawn and about the wonderful smell of freshly mown grass
mixed with the exhaust of the mower. I talked about washing the car
and straightening out the tools on my work bench. I talked about
the beautiful weather and about the dinner that Nancy and I were
preparing. I prattled on endless about anything that came to mind;
the cat, work, and projects around the house. How long this went on
I can't say, but I was always aware of the tentative breathing on
the other end of the phone. But, gradually it slowed and seemed to
reach a more even rhythm, as if the boy on the other end had
reached some level of satisfaction.

"So, Mark, I'm really glad you called," I said, and paused, hoping
for a response. "Look, buddy, call back anytime, OK!"

The answer came so quietly I wasn't really sure at first what I
heard. "K!" was all he said, but it was enough.

And that became our routine. Each day, in the late afternoon, the
phone would ring, and the quiet breathing of a small boy could be
heard on the other end of the line. I was prepared each time and I
filled the void with all the trivial details of my life; how the
car was running, about trips to the store, yard work, and stories
about Nancy and the cat. I continued on saying nothing of any great
importance, but feeling, at the same time, like I was building a
bridge between us. I listened carefully the whole time to the
breathing on the other end, tense at first, but relaxing toward the
end.

And then the day came, that I'd always hoped for, but I was still
shocked when it did. I was part way through my usual monologue when
he interrupted me.

"We had hot dogs for lunch today," hearing his voice for the first
time ever. I went silent, waiting for more. There was a pause, as
if he was uncertain, and then the floodgate released, "but they had
sauerkraut on them and I don't like sauerkraut and it made the bun
all gooey so I took the hotdog out and ate it with just ketchup and
the tatter tots, oh, and the chocolate pudding afterward, and they
had some extra, so if you were good you got seconds on the pudding,
and that made some of the other kids mad, but it seemed fair to me..."

I heard about the game they played afterward and about how a few of
the kids cheated and others got mad and that there was almost a
fight until the staff broke it up and made them all take showers
and get ready for bed. On and on it went, all the details of life
of importance to a ten year-old boy. Scrapped knees with scabs that
get picked off too soon, school work that's boring but the
excitement of games at recess. How long it went on, I don't know.
All I know is that I hung on to ever word, absorbed ever detail.

Then, as abruptly as it began, it ended. "I gotta go!" came out of
nowhere, "we're going to play tag before dinner." And I swear I
heard the scurry of feet even before the phone hit the cradle and
the connection died.

I fell apart. I did more than cry; I sobbed, my body racked, my
heart torn apart. I cried like I had not cried since I was a boy,
myself. Why? I can't say. The emotions I felt were a jumbled
confusion of joy, sorrow, pity, rage, and relief. Nancy, who had
watched me throughout the phone call, sat on the arm of the chair
and provided what comfort she could, but it was a long time before
I could regain control.

With that phone call our routine changed. The calls came each day
as they had before, but now it was my turn to listen and his to
talk. It was as if he had not talked in years and had to make up
for it all in that short period of time. I found I had little to do
but listen and to reassure him that I was there and paying
attention. I heard about each and every small detail of his life as
well as the big ones. But each time, as if afraid to draw too
close, he would decide when the conversation was over and the phone
call would come to an abrupt end.

One day I was late coming home from work. I did what I could to
race through paperwork at the office, to quickly brief the incoming
watch commander, and then to race for home, but I was still about
20 minutes past the time that Mark called when I finally arrived. I
was afraid of the effect, of the repercussions of not being there
for him when he needed me, but instead I walked in to Nancy
chatting gaily on the phone and I could tell right away it was Mark.

"Really," and "tell me more," was a lot of what I heard, and I
could tell he required little encouragement to fill space in the
conversation. Finally I heard her say, "Listen, Nick's here if
you'd like to talk to him," and the answer must have been no,
because she ended the call by telling him "I'll tell him you
called" and hung up the phone.

Then it was her turn to cry. We sat together on the couch, her head
on my chest, my arm around her shoulder, and I just let her tears
flow. Even when she was done, when she was emotionally spent and
there were no tears left, we sat silently in the gathering dark of
evening, neither of us ready to move, each absorbed in thoughts of
the developing bond between this boy and us. It was in that moment
we both knew that Mark was ours.

**** ****
The game is over and we walk back toward the car amongst the crowd
of other parents and players on their way to the parking lot from
the soccer field. Mark's team won, but Mark did not score, a rare
game for him. Mark is between us, chatting nonstop to Nancy about
the game; replaying each of the critical moments for her. And she
is absorbed in all of the details.

If this story was fiction, I would tell you that the man who did
this, the man who abused and tortured this boy so terribly for so
long, had been identified. And, I would tell you that instead of
being caught and brought before the court to answer for his crimes,
in a trial in which Mark would again have to testify and relive the
torture and humiliation; instead I would tell you how he was found
in a field, shot. But, this is not fiction, and stories like Mark's
do not end as neatly as that.

You see, it doesn't really matter who the perpetrator was or where
he currently is. It doesn't matter if he is alive or dead. It
doesn't matter because he continues to exist as a monster that
haunts Mark to this day. He lives inside of Mark, and will continue
to do so for many long years to come. And, as much as Mark fights
against him, as hard as Mark tries to keep him bottled up, he still
emerges to wreak havoc upon Mark's soul.

He comes out most often at night, in Mark's dreams. He tries to
keep these episodes quiet, but often, passing his room at night, I
hear the whimpers and the thrashing about. And on those nights I
sit with him, gently stroking his hair, holding him when he will
let me, feeling his sweat soaked chest against my own. Even during
the day, on a crowded city street, a noise, a smell, a voice will
free the monster again, and Mark freezes, his face ashen, and it
takes patience and love to bring him back to us again.

Sister Anna says that, one day, when he is strong enough, Mark will
confront the monster within. She says that it will be a time of
Mark's own choosing; it will be a moment when Mark decides to open
up and share with me what happened on the awful day. But, she also
warns us to be patient, that it will be just the first step in a
long journey to recovery.

I know that it will come when I least expect it. It will be a hot
summer afternoon and we will be laughing, and wrestling, pretending
to wash the car, but really using it as an excuse to spray each
other with the hose and "accidently" fling soapy sponges at one
another. Nancy will be inside, or perhaps watching from the porch,
loudly cheering Mark on, but respecting the moment that is so
clearly ours. Later, we will be working together carefully
polishing the car. There, in the semi-darkness and privacy of the
garage, the conversation will slow, and, without my even realizing
it, Mark will become silent. The small hand that makes careful
circles on the car body, removing the polish and buffing the finish
to a bright shine, will slow, and then stop. In that moment, he
will be retreating back to that day long ago. I will move close, to
be there for him and I will hold him if he lets me. And, then, so
quiet that I can barely hear, he will begin to tell his tale.

As much as I long for that day for Mark, as much as I want Mark to
be able to shake free from that past and to become the wholesome
boy he deserves to be, I dread that day. I dread that day because I
question whether I am strong enough to provide the support he will
need.

You see, the bond between Mark and I is so strong, that as he
relives that time, I will relive it with him. I will feel first the
confusion and then the terror as the event unfolds. My body will
freeze in panic as I realize what is about to begin and my
helplessness to prevent it. I will feel each lash as the wide
leather belt, buckle flying free, strikes my back. I pull back with
all my strength as I watch the glowing end of the cigarette move
slowly toward my arm and I will smell the burning flesh and I will
feel the sharp pain as it is ground into my arm. I will twist and
writhe as I attempt to break free. I will fight back along with
him, desperate to land blows with my fists and feet that will
stagger the monster long enough for me to run and to hide. Then I
will feel the twine twist into the flesh of my wrists as I am
bound, and I will live with the helplessness as the clothes are
ripped from body. I will see the greasy face that leers over me and
smell his sour breath upon me.

Finally, and worst of all, I will feel in the finest detail every
second of the pain and humiliation of what follows. I will scream,
but no one will hear me, and my pleas for him to stop will be met
with a sneering laugh. I will experience the anger and
helplessness, all coated with shame. And, I will be there, with
Mark, as we both reach the moment when all fight leaves us, when we
surrender, when we leave our body behind and retreat to a far
corner of our mind and hope only to survive. And finally, reaching
the very bottom of the dark pit into which I have descended, I will
reach that moment when I long for surrender into the cold dark arms
of death.

But there is an end to that long dark tunnel. And, just as Mark
somehow survived; I too will eventually crawl free, forever
scarred, never again the completely carefree and trusting person
that I was. As I relive that moment with him, his hand will be in
mine, providing me with strength and guiding me back to the light.

We continue our casual walk across the field to the parking lot and
the car. Mark continues to regale Nancy with an analysis of each
play, with incidents from school, with stories from a birthday
party the night before, and back again to the game. I walk silently
beside them, happy just to be a part of it all; to share with them
the bright sunshine, the beautiful blue sky, and the lightness of
the moment. Then, without breaking his concentration, without
turning away from Nancy, he slips his hand in mine and he squeezes
gently. I feel as if he knows where I am and what I am thinking. I
feel like he is giving me strength just as I tried to do for him
that cold spring day almost a year ago. But mostly I feel as if he
is telling me that today is not the day; that the day will come,
but that today, neither of us is ready. We both have so much more
strength to gain before we are ready to take on and begin to
vanquish that monster.

I look down at him, admiring his bronze skin, and the trim athletic
build and in my mind I compare that to the thin, ashen-faced boy
from a year ago. I think of how much we have shared over the last
year. I laugh, looking back, remembering how Nancy and I both
shared the belief that somehow we could be complete as a couple
without a boy like Mark in our lives. And I think of all we have
yet to experience; both good times and bad, and I know that I will
treasure them all. I look at Mark, his face bright, his walk free
from care, and I thank God for bringing me my raggedy boy.