The Lawman and the Little Boy

I have it all planned out: Aaron and I will run away and Gary will stay behind to tearfully explain that we won't ever come back unless Dad agrees we can all stay with Mom. My mother. Forever. I am willing to share her with my nowhalf-brothers since I know she belongs to me alone. I'm so generous.

Aaron and I trudge over ten miles, following the freeway access road, back toward the airport, to an apartment complex Mom lived in when she first got to Austin. There is a friendly neighbor there, someone we think can help us, hide us, maybe even feed us. The neighbor isn't home. We sit, waiting on the outdoor stairs that go up to the second floor of the complex. Several other tenants demand to know what we're up to. We decline to answer, only saying we're waiting for the neighbor to get home, that we are expected. One of the bastards calls the cops, and next thing we know a sheriff's car pulls up.

A sweaty, muscle-bound redneck in uniform ambles over. I think he's pretty cute but thankfully I resist offering to become his one and only little boy right on the spot. Such an offer might further complicate the trouble we're already in. There is a lecture at the station, along with dire warnings of what happens to evil children who break the law. Twenty years or so later the Travis County District Attorney indicts an eleven year-old learning-disabled African-American girl for a murder she decidedly has not committed. They are a serious bunch. I often think of the officer over the next few years in private moments - a delicate way of saying I close my eyes and picture him when I play with myself.

The dreamboat lawman dumps us back at Mom's house. She looks miserable. Gary has probably screwed up his part of the plan, I think, so I'm not sure if she quite gets that we ran away not from her but from Adam. Later I know she knows. Just not at the moment. Adam interrogates us, which is terrifying. God, his voice. If a razor could roar it would sound like him. I am not sorry and I don't pretend. Usually I am very good at pretending. I don't know about the Stockholm Syndrome yet but I think I instinctively understand that hostages who at least act like they identify with their captors have a better shot at making it out alive. I know how to give a reasonable facsimile of identifying with my captor but sometimes the pressure builds up too far, and without warning my head cracks open, splattering the room with bile and pus. My father's interrogation is one of those moments. I know I should act like I'm sorry but his every accusation infuriates me further. Gary and Aaron are crying. I keep my head down but suddenly the words, "Fuck you," come out of my mouth, aimed in his direction. I am in terrible danger. My captor sees the truth, his outraged, "What did you say?!" scaring me straight. I cry out, lying, screaming that what I said was, "I'm sorry!" which Dad isn't fool enough to believe. He picks me up like he wants to tear me in half and takes off down the hall with me hanging from his shoulder. My mother shudders like she might break apart but does nothing to stop him.

Once he has me, though, he doesn't quite know what to do with me. Maybe I freak him out too much. Maybe he senses how my thoughts revert to other father figures, to my cop, to men. Finally Dad takes me to the bedroom my brothers and I are sharing that summer and unceremoniously dumps me on my twin bed. I melt into the cool feeling of the blue leatherette bedspread against my cheek as I check out, privately losing myself inside a world of my own creation.

I am a princess. My own personal lawman rescues me.