A Child's Story

A boy's generally happy childhood, but marred by an encounter with a pedophile.

A Child’s Story

 

By Elton Camp

 

(Important note:  The title of this story might suggest it is suitable for a child to read, but it isn’t because it includes a scary depiction of a child molester.  A parent could read it with a child as a means to help a youngster become more aware of the wiles of pedophiles.  The molester depicted is more like the type likely to bother a child:  not a “dirty old man” or a stranger, but a seemingly safe neighbor. If just one child is spared such an encounter, the time writing it will have been well spent.  But this story isn’t by any means entirely grim.  Most of it deals with a child’s generally happy life in the early 1940s, including an exciting encounter with a genial hobo.)

 

 

            I don’t remember anything about the day of the move to the house on Altimore Avenue.  We’d been living in an upstairs apartment in a place that I, for no apparent reason, called “The Smutty House.” After my father’s 1944 return from work as a security guard at one of the more distant locations of the Manhattan Project, he abruptly relocated our family. 

 

            “It’s nothing but a firetrap,” he exclaimed in alarm when he examined the quarters selected by my mother during his absence.  He was correct since a long, steep stairway ascended to the second floor and there was no alternative way of escape in case of an emergency. 

 

            Desirable rentals that we could afford weren’t available.  Our new residence, the best he could do, was a two-room apartment in one side of a large old house in what had once been a prosperous residential section.  Both room had outside doors and windows near ground level.  It was far safer, or so it appeared.  The neighborhood was respectable and middle class

 

            I was thrilled.  Neither kindergarten nor day care existed in our small Alabama town. It was the first place I had a gang of playmates of my own age.  We gathered at our various houses, skated on the sidewalk, attended parties, and generally had a carefree time.  We were below school age, but mature enough to travel among houses.  Personal danger was a vague concept.

 

            There was only one major limitation on my freedom.  “Never cross the street, “ my parents sternly warned.  “It’s too risky.”  I solemnly promised that I wouldn’t.  Other than that, I could come and go as I pleased. 

 

            As instructed, I remained within the safety of our block.  Tricycles were the order of the day.  Only one of the slightly older boys had a small bicycle.  Although we were far from prosperous, I nevertheless became the proud owner of a large new trike.  It allowed me to participate fully in daily play.  I was able to pedal sitting on the seat, or even if I dropped down to a broad support near the rear wheels.  Nobody else had a tricycle as fine as mine, I thought. 

 

            From one end of our block’s sidewalk to the other we pedaled in a train.  No youngster liked to be passed, so any attempt to do so resulted in ringing of handlebar bells and indignant shouts. 

 

We learned that a truckload of sugar cane on its way to the mill could mean stalks tossed to us if we called out and gestured politely.  A couple of friendly teenage boys normally rode on top of the load to keep it from shifting.  The crunchy, sweet pulp was a delicious treat. 

 

           My backyard had a small scope of trees with limbs growing almost horizontal from the main trunks.  They provided an ideal ladder to reach what we considered to be daring heights.  Boys, and an occasional girl, arranged themselves vertically according to strength and agility.  There we’d sit, engaged in idle chatter, until it was time to move to a new adventure. 

 

            Behind Laine’s Craftsman style cottage was an area of damp sand where we discovered how to make “toad houses,” by packing sand around our bare feet.  If we were careful when we removed them, small grottoes remained.  In the field behind his yard was a glorious patch of vines and tall grass where we shoved out networks of tunnels. 

 

            A boy my age lived in a large, old two-story house at the other end of the block.  He didn’t play with the rest of us.  We saw him as he peered out the window as we passed, but calls for him to come out went unheeded.  Corbin remained at the window with a forlorn look.  Finally we no longer invited him.  His run-down residence we designated the “haunted house.”  Once fear of the place arose, it grew in our minds to monstrous proportions.  Its end location allowed us to avoid passing in front.

 

            “What’s wrong with Corbin?” I asked my parents.  “He never wants to come out and play.”

 

            “It’s not him,” my father explained.  “I’m sure he’d like to be friendly.  His grandparents had to take him after their son’s death.  They’re worried that he’ll get hurt so they make him stay inside all the time.  They mean well, I’m sure, but they’re too old to be rearing a boy his age.”

 

            One day shortly after lunch, I went on my usual jaunt to find playmates.  Despite visits to house after house of my buddies, I found nobody at home.  Disappointed and distracted, I walked on, and to my horror, passed the haunted house before I realized it.  The place had never looked scarier.  The yard was knee-high with grass and weeds.  Overgrown shrubbery rubbed against the walls in the summer breeze.  The scraping sound only added to my acute discomfort.  At any minute, Corbin’s stern keepers might emerge in a rage. The idea of passing in front of it again terrified me.   But how could I get home since to cross the street was forbidden.  I considered violating the “prime directive” and even took a step or two into the street, but recalled my promise and retreated. 

 

            Then I thought of a solution.  Even at five years old, I had the general layout of our neighborhood in mind.  The side street led to a railroad track.  The track passed close behind our block.  I often saw and heard the train as it roared past.  Occasional hoboes wandered over to seek handouts.  Another side street led back into Baltimore Avenue.  I could get home without violation of the edict about crossing streets.  Equally important, I could avoid the haunted house.  The problem was solved. 

 

            All went well at first.  I walked along the track, alert for the sound of an approaching train.  My plan was to move quickly to the side if necessary.  I stepped from one crosstie to the next for a distance, but discovered that it was fun to try to balance on one of the shiny rails.  With arms raised on each side, I placed one foot directly in front of the other.  Every few steps I lost my balance and slipped to the crossties.  Up I went to try again.  I could see the rear of our house across the field.  Soon I would be home. 

 

            In the distance, I spotted something I hadn’t anticipated.  A hobo on the track approached. 

 

            “What should I do?” I wondered.  He’d spotted me.  The man hurried in my direction, waving his arms and yelling something that I couldn’t quite make out. 

 

            To flee across the field directly to my house seemed a reasonable way to escape.  I made only a few steps before my feet began to sink into the soft mud created by a recent rain.  The more I tried to pull them out, the deeper I sank.  The quagmire’s suction resulted in the loss of first one shoe and then the other.   

 

            I had to return to the track.  By then, the man was almost upon me.  He wore dirty, brown pants, a long-sleeve plaid shirt, and had a rumpled cap on his head.  His scraggly beard showed several days growth.  He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me close to him.  I began to whimper.

 

            “What are you doing here?” he demanded.  “This is too dangerous.  Where do you live?”

 

            The man seemed alarmed, but not unkind. I looked into his clear blue eyes and decided that he could be trusted.  After I supplied the requested information, he became quite cordial and entertained me with a story of his travels on the short walk down the track to the street.  Soon we stood at the door to our apartment.  He knocked loudly. 

 

            “Is this your son?” he asked sternly when my mother opened the door. 

 

            He proceeded to give her a scolding lecture on childrearing.  “You should watch him closer,” he charged.  “The train could have come along anytime.  Think how you’d feel if he’d gotten killed.” 

 

            After he consumed the sandwich and glass of milk my mother provided to placate him, the hobo was in a better frame of mind.  As he ambled toward the track, he glanced back and gave me a playful wink. 

 

            After that, “Never get around the railroad” was added to my limitations. 

 

            “The train could’ve hit you or that man might’ve done something to you,” my mother stormed.  “What could you have been thinking?” 

 

            “He wouldn’t hurt me.  Nobody would do anything like that,” I thought, but remained silent.  I’d found it best not to say much back to adults when they were upset. 

 

            On rainy or extremely cold days, I played inside.  My favorite toy was Jitter, a stuffed chimp with brown fur and a white face.  He was a gift from my Grandmother Morris.  We were in the Marble City Variety store in Sylacauga when he told me she wanted to buy me a toy and to pick out anything I liked.  When I selected Jitter, she was disappointed.

 

            “I intended to get you something really nice.  Are you sure that’s what you want?” she asked. 

 

The chimp was an inexpensive item, but that wasn’t the reason for my selection.  I liked him the instant I spotted him. I assured her that was what I wanted.  We were soon on the way to the car with me proudly clutching the prized monkey.  I liked his furry softness, his friendly eyes and smile, his long tail, and the fact that he had legs that bent at the hips so that he could sit on his own.  Nothing could have pleased me more.

 

I had a number of other toys.  Among my favorites were kaleidoscope that produced an amazing pattern of colors and a hand-cranked top that hummed nicely, especially at top speed. 

 

All was well.  My biggest concern, at that point in my life, was that I not forget and leave my playthings in the floor.  If I did, my father always reacted in the same way.

 

            “I told you to keep those things put away,” he shouted angrily. 

 

            Before I could do anything, he began to violently kick my prized possessions in the direction of the closet where I’d been told to store them.  I scrambled to gather them while he continued to boot them until the last item was put away.  Jitter, in particular, must not be hurt. 

 

            Sometimes I played alone outside.  A cloth paratrooper made a slow descent when I tossed him high enough with his chute packed correctly.  A hollow, rubber ball was great to kick.  The empty lot next door provided extra running space. 

 

            Group play occasionally took a form that I didn’t fully understand.  The gang would divide into two groups, but not the usual cowboys and Indians.  The bigger boys played the part of Germans or “Japs.”  That designation called for cruel looks, frowns and squinted eyes.  The role of the younger boys was to run and scream when the hated enemy approached. Capture was to be avoided at all costs. 

 

            Like most of the youngsters, I had only a vague idea of the horrid reality behind those grim war games.  The grown boys were “overseas,” but I didn’t comprehend what that meant.  If I ever heard the names of Roosevelt or Churchill, I don’t recall it.  One name did stand out.

 

            “You look just like Hitler,” my father joked if I combed my thick, brown hair to the side in a certain way.  

 

            “Who’s Hitler,” I wondered, but didn’t ask.  The attention I got was enough. 

 

            Early one morning, I heard a strange sound.  As my playmates rode along the sidewalk, they blew whistles and cheered. 

 

            “What’s going on?” I asked. 

 

            “Hitler is dead,” my mother explained.  “It was just on the radio.”

 

            Why that should be a cause to rejoice, I didn’t know, but within minutes I joined them.  Up and down the sidewalk we went.  The shrill whistles combined with honked horns of passing drivers were surreal.  I never again pretended to be Hitler.   

 

            It was after the end of the War when the influx of discharged soldiers commenced.  Low cost housing began to be built on every available lot.  A small frame house with white asbestos siding was constructed on the vacant lot next to our apartment.  A family moved in soon after its completion.  My supplementary yard was gone. 

 

            The first time I saw Donald, he stood in the side yard of his new house and beckoned to me to come over. 

 

            “He’s too old to want to play,” I thought. 

 

            With no better prospects immediately at hand, I ran over to get acquainted.  Donald was of medium build with pale skin and unruly black hair.  From his demeanor, I quickly realized that, while almost adult size, he wasn’t yet a grown-up. 

 

            We chatted aimlessly for a while.  I was impressed that a guy that much older would show interest in me.  Unlike adults who only pretended to listen to kids, he was attentive and responded correctly.  It made me feel important. 

 

            “Come look at our car,” he invited cordially.                             

 

            In his driveway was parked a gray Ford sedan from the thirties.  It appeared freshly washed, but had a deep dent on the right front fender. 

 

            “Look what great springs it has.”

 

            Donald placed his foot on the chrome bumper and started it bouncing.  He called to my attention the fact that it continued to move up and down on its own a few times.

 

            “I got my driver’s license last week, the day after I turned sixteen.  Maybe I’ll take you for a ride if you’re good.” 

 

            I began to visit Donald practically every day.  He showed me how to fly a kite, the right way to toss a ball, and how to crouch down and spit under a rock to stop side pain. 

 

            Occupied with the necessity to eke out a living as driver of a Merita Bread truck, my father had little time for such things.  He left early and got in late, exhausted. 

 

            “Can some of the other guys come over?” I asked Donald one afternoon as I spied two of my best pals on the sidewalk.

 

            “No.  Tell them you’ll see them later.  If you want me to stay your friend, it’s got to be just you and me.”

 

            The first time I got a creepy feeling, Donald and I wrestled on the grass in his backyard.  Since he always let me win, it was a game I enjoyed.  That afternoon, he pinned me to the ground.  I felt his hands rhythmically open and close on my thighs just above my knees. 

 

            Puzzled, I asked, “What’re you doing?” 

 

            “Nothing.  Just so you know I’m stronger than you are.” His voice, somehow, seemed strange. 

 

            He stared directly into my eyes.  I looked away, pulled free from his grasp, and struggled to my feet.  I made an excuse about something to do at home and hurried away. 

 

            I didn’t respond to his calls to come over for a couple of days, but soon found myself back to the usual routine.  I needed him since the other guys no longer came to visit.

 

            “If you’d rather play with him instead of us, then fine,” they chided.  “Nobody likes you much anymore.”  It was true.  I’d let him gradually alienate me from my friends. 

 

            For a time, everything seemed fine again.  Donald showed me some card tricks he’d learned, but I didn’t see anything special about them.  I pretended interest so as not to offend him.  More exciting was his new pocketknife with glossy yellow handles.  He opened each of its several blades, and demonstrated their sharpness on a stick of oak.  I was suitably impressed. 

 

            The last time I ever went to his house, he led me to his back yard.  We worked our way underneath a dense fig tree and ate a few ripe fruits.  Suddenly, I felt his arm around my neck and he pulled me to the ground.  He ran his hands up and down my trunk and then began to fondle me intensely.  What he did felt wrong.  Surprised and confused, I submitted silently for a couple of minutes before I tried to force his hand away. 

 

            “No you don’t.  You know you want this,” he muttered, the same weird tone to his voice that I’d heard before.  He had an odd, scary expression on his face and his breathing became deep and loud. 

 

            The teenager released his grasp and shifted both hands to the top of my pants.  With a quick jerk, he pulled them, along with my underwear, below my knees. 

 

            “Quit that!  I’m gonna tell on you,” I responded, almost in tears. 

 

            He reached into his pocket, withdrew his knife and unfolded the longest blade.  “If you do, I’ll kill you and your parents too.”  Donald placed the blade of the knife lightly against my neck to demonstrate his intentions. 

 

            Thoroughly terrified, I began to scream.  “Help!  Help!  Make him leave me alone.”

 

            “Shut up!”  Nobody will believe you if you tell.” He clamped his hand over my mouth to silence me.  “Everybody hates a tattletale.  Want people to hate you?” 

 

            I bit one of his fingers as hard as I could. 

 

            “You’re gonna be sorry for that,” he blustered.  “I’m gonna have to kill you now.” 

 

            I began to scream again and to kick furiously.  He jumped to his feet and stalked off.  As he left, he glanced back and repeated the warning “Say nothing or you die.”   For days I obeyed his instructions.  Donald didn’t come outside and I stayed well away from his yard.  

 

I felt that I needed to confide in someone, but remembered his threat.  Nothing could happen to my parents on my account.  Finally, I could stand it no longer. 

 

            I approached my parents as they sat on the couch.  It had to be done, although I felt that, somehow, I might be in trouble.  I blurted out the story as best I could, although I didn’t know the right words to use.  When I got to the part about him killing them, I broke into sobs. Once told, it gave me an immense feeling of relief. My parents looked at each other with shock. 

 

            “Are you sure that’s what happened?  You aren’t making this up, are you?” my father asked doubtfully.  I assured him that it was true. 

 

            “What should we do?” he whispered to my mother. 

 

            After an awkward pause she told me, “Don’t ever go over there again.”

 

            My parents asked no more details and provided no comforting assurance that I had done the right thing to tell them.  Nothing further was ever said about the matter.  I doubt that they believed me. 

 

            It was at that point that I began to have ghastly nightmares.  They were always the same: A brown wolf dressed in human clothes threatened to devour me.  I wailed in terror and tried to run, but seemed stuck in place.  After I awoke, I continued to cry and scream in fear.

 

            Each time, the squeak of bedsprings showed that my mother started to get up, but my father always prevented it.  “Let him cry it out.  I’m sick of being woke up every night.” 

 

            After a few minutes, I regained a measure of composure, but dreaded going back to sleep.   The horrid nightmare usually returned.  Over and over it came, night after miserable night.  Whether the dreams were caused by Ronald’s molestation I don’t know. 

 

            After a few weeks, Donald must’ve decided that I’d kept the terrible secret.  Sometimes when I was outside, he came as close to the edge of our yard as he dared and called me.  I never looked in his direction, but ran inside.

 

            Later that year, we moved miles into the country.  With a new slate of activities to fill my mind, I gradually forgot about the experience.  Years later the memory flooded back when I had a child of my own.

 

            “Never talk to strangers.  Beware of relatives and neighbors.  Don’t go to the door if we’re not home.  Nobody has the right to touch you without your permission.  Trust your feelings.” 

 

            On and on went the warnings in a more enlightened age when the danger of pedophiles was discussed openly with children. 

 

            “Oh, Daddy, nothing like that ever happens,” my daughter responded with a tolerant smile for her overanxious father.  “You worry too much.” 

 

 

The End

 

 

Epilogue

 

            I am now an old man.  My daughter is a competent adult.  I recently drove across State and visited the home block of my early childhood.  The house where we lived is gone, replaced by townhouses. 

 

            The pedophile’s house still stands. Except for vinyl siding, it looks much as it did years ago. Did Donald molest other children?  An Internet search revealed the man’s first and fairly unusual last name in a nearby city.  Is it the same one?  Perhaps not since he would now be nearing his mid eighties. Possibly he is dead.  Yet, he lives as a blotch in my memory. 

 

            A small brick residence has been erected on the lot where the haunted house had been.  Two houses of my best pals seem caught in a time warp�"unchanged despite the passing decades. 

 

            The railroad remains, its rails still shiny from passing trains, just as I recall them.  I could readily identify the place where I met the hobo. 

 

            In some ways, those days of the 1940s seem only as yesterday.