Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (83 page)

“It's
discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by
deceit.”

― Noël
Coward

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

It takes a
moment before I truly come to terms with the meaning of her unexpected
bombshell. When I do, I freak out and jump to my feet.

“Do you mean to tell
me you’ve actually had sex with André?”

“Of course.”

“But… wasn’t he
your counselor?”

She leans back
in her chair, lifts her chin. “When I was a child, André was my counselor and
my best friend,” she says, slowly and clearly. “When I grew up, he taught me
how to be a sexual surrogate, but he remained my very best friend.” She shrugs.
“Why wouldn’t I have sex with my friends? Who else should I have sex with—complete
strangers?”

“But he’s your
counselor!”

“He
was
my counselor. Once I became an adult, he became my sexual surrogate mentor.”

My world shifts,
but not in a good way. “You’ve had sex with André?”

I try to make
sense of information my brain desperately wants to reject. I still can't
believe it. I don't
want
to know this. I don't want this to be true.

“Yes.”

“Jesus!”
I begin rapidly pacing back and forth in angry, jerky motions. “So
that’s
how you know what he likes.” I say, throwing my hands into the air. “André and
you—you and André! Christ on a crutch!
André
sodomized you, didn’t he?”

Sodomize.
There. I finally said that word aloud for the first time, but I don’t feel any
better for it.

Her eyes flash
with a hint of anger. “André and I enjoyed each other’s company as consenting
adults. For the love of God, Grant! It’s not as if he took my virginity and
promised me marriage. We had sex. What do you think a sexual surrogate does,
anyway?”

I glower
suspiciously at her.

The bottom has just
dropped out of my world.

André, my
trusted and loyal friend, my therapist, my mentor, has fucked Renata? No, not
just fucked her, he’s
butt fucked
her! I clench my teeth so hard I
wonder if they’ll break. Right now, André’s probably also fucking
my sister
.
Who the hell hasn’t he fucked?

Well, he
missed his chance with me!

My phone rings.

I’m so enraged I
welcome the distraction. I glance down. Caller ID states that it’s André.

Fucking André—literally!

I answer the
phone, carefully moderating my voice. I can
act
rationally, no matter
what’s going on inside my heart or my head. Hiding my feelings comes easy to me.
I’ve done it all of my life. So, what’s one more time?

“Hello?”

“
Mon ami
,
if you please, can you meet me at your brother’s home? In perhaps, thirty
minutes? It is most important.”

“Yes,” I reply
with forced calm. “I’ll be there,” I add then hang up.

I’m glad to have
this excuse to leave. I have to get out of here! I need to get away! I’m also
grateful for a chance to have it out with André once and for all. I have to get
some of this off my chest. I’m going to beat the shit out of the bastard.

The strangest
part is, I can’t isolate exactly what’s bothering me. I feel betrayed.
Deceived. Tricked!

No, André helped
me. Renata saved me! Or did they?

Is everything
I thought a lie?

Fuck, there’s
something seriously wrong with me. I’m still crazy.

Monster!
Pervert!

Images flick
through my mind. Me, a monster, drinking, fighting, killing people with head
and heart shots… seeking penance through pain and isolation. I see Renata,
fucking me, then Renata fucking
him.
My father standing naked before me in
his den. André bare-assed naked in our tent.

Me entranced and
admiring. Looking up to my father. Looking up to André. Loving them
both.

Duped by oversexed
manipulators, an utter fool once again.

My hand flies to
my facial scars. I touch them, feeling the uneven thickness, the pulling and
rippling of the skin. How did I forget about my scars? Disfigurement is my
punishment. I’m sick inside and out. I deserve every scar I have. I am my
father’s son—a monster.

Endless doubts
assail me. Like ticking time bombs, they begin to detonate. Have I actually been
brainwashed
by André? Is it like being in a cult? Is Renata in on it?
Does she care for me at all?

Everything I
trusted, everything I believed disappears in an explosion of shame, suspicion
and uncertainty.

I wonder if any
of this was ever real.

I have a
burning desire to kill someone
.

Lust has been my
downfall. It's always been that way since I can remember. I’m a sinner living
in sin. Perhaps the minister of our church had it right all along. The flesh is
weak. Sodomy is evil. Homosexuality is wrong. Sexual surrogacy is the work of
the devil. No one should have sex out of wedlock.

I grab my car
keys and stalk out the front door.

Renata runs
after me. “Grant, what’s happening?” she calls out, panic filling her voice. “Grant,
please
talk to me. Where are you going? Don’t leave like this!”

I stop suddenly,
spin on my heel. Like flipping a switch, I feel utterly numb. Expressionless, I
stare at this beautiful woman, this siren sent to draw me in. I should have
known everything was too good to be true.

Why is she even here?
What does she
really
want?

No one could
genuinely want me. I’m unlovable.

Monster!
Pervert!

“I have to go,”
I say, my voice as dead as my heart.

“Fine,” she says
curtly, hurt showing only fleetingly in her eyes. Chin lifted, she crosses her
arms in front of her chest. Her tone has a ring of anxiety, but she looks
really
pissed. “Maybe I’ll still be here when you get back,” she says quietly.

I used to
believe that I was going to hell.

Now, I feel as
though I’m already there.

“Seek first
to understand, then to be understood.”

―
Stephen R. Covey

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

I sit with Alex
in his living room, waiting.

My brother
definitely hired a decorator for his home. The living room walls are dove
white, while cool metal touches give the room a modern sophisticated
air—mirror, coffee table, even the fireplace is glossed in chic silver.

One wall is flame-red,
a hot, angry color, which perfectly matches my mood right now. No longer numb
and disconnected, I stare at it in barely suppressed rage.

Alex’s wife and
son have gone out, thank God. He tries to make me laugh with a few jokes, which
fall flat. Now we’ve reverted to our normal sibling interaction—that is to say,
we don’t speak to each other at all.

“What did
Chevalier say to you?” I finally ask—not to break the uncomfortable silence,
but because I want to know. “He asked to meet me here, but he didn’t say why.”

“Oh, he told me he’s
coming over with Betty Jo because there’s something important to discuss.” When
I don’t respond, Alex adds, “André suggested Sky and Briley go out while we
talk. That suited me because Sky and Betty Jo don’t get along. I figure it’s
either about my court case, or maybe concerning real estate sales. Betty Jo’s
having trouble managing the family business without me.”

He pauses, but I
say nothing.

Alex shrugs. “It
could even be about our mother. What I don’t understand is why is Betty Jo
hanging out with your counselor? Is she getting counseling?”

No, she’s not
getting fucking counseling,
I itch to tell him.
She’s getting fucked by
my counselor, you can appreciate the difference I’m sure.

With real
effort, I don’t say this snarky thought out loud. I’m calmer now, I’m back in
control. I ignore the fog of confusion and fury that surrounds me like a dark
cloud.

When the
doorbell rings, Alex jumps up. Moments later, he guides Chevalier and my sister
into the living room. A distinctive smell of breath mints perfumes the air.
It’s supposed to camouflage her drinking problem, but it doesn’t.

I clench my
fists, sit back in my chair and act relaxed.

I’ve been counting
my breaths and my heart rate, but this unfinished business I have with André
tests my control. I’ll wait to see what this meeting is about, then afterwards
I’ll deal with him.

When I’m greeted
by André, I barely nod. If he notices I’m pissed, he doesn’t show it. Betty Jo,
of course, doesn’t greet me. She stares at me with open loathing.

I stare back at
her for a change. For some strange reason, today I revel in her all-consuming hatred
and openly hate her back.

Alex
overcompensates for my rudeness, fussing around. Chatty and amusing, using
one-liner jokes, he offers his guests comfortable seating.

“Drink anyone?”
he asks.

Alex has been
sipping a beer, which doesn’t trouble me. While beer tastes OK, I never
developed an interest in it. Straight to the hard stuff, that’s what I went
for.

“Scotch,” Betty
Jo replies with a nasty little gleam in her eye. “You have any good Scotch?
Maybe Lagavulin?”

“Sure,” Alex
says. He moves to the bar, gets out a bottle, pours her a glass and hands it to
her.

“Perfect.” She
slants a glance at me, well aware that I attend AA. “I’ve heard Lagavulin is
excellent.” Taking a sip she moans, “Mmm, yum. It
is
perfect. So smoky
and smooth.”

Bitch!

Betty Jo usually
drinks bourbon, but she knows Lagavulin Scotch is my preferred poison. I don’t
drink alcohol anymore, but the desire is still there. As an addict, I remember
the taste, the smell and the delicious numbing effect of downing a bottle of
hard liquor almost every damn day. Betty Jo has chosen to drink Scotch in an
effort to tease, tempt and annoy me.

Unfortunately,
it’s working.

“
Merci
beaucoup,
I also, will drink Scotch,” André says.

Rat bastard!

Everyone sits
down except André.
“Mes amis.”
He stands like a public speaker and
begins. “I wish very much to impose upon you. I have had the honor of spending
an evening with your sister. We discussed, oh-so much. It became clear to me—the
Wilkinson family do not communicate to one another concerning the important
issues, no?”

None of us say a
thing.

André laughs and
flings a hand in the air.
“Et voila!
You illustrate my point!” he scolds
us with a teasing, mischievous smile on his face. Yesterday I would have found
this comment amusing. Today, I don’t.

“I ask a favor,
if you please,” André continues. “
Eh bien,
I have found when there are
one or more people embroiled in dispute, sometimes it is best for
one
person to say everything they wish. The others, they are not allowed to
interrupt. Then a turn from another can occur, and so on. I am willing to mediate
this process, if you agree.”

He pins Alex and
I with an indulgent, yet penetrating gaze. “My friends, Alex and Grant, your
sister, Betty Jo, has many valid grievances.” I sit forward, my lips part, but
he holds out a hand, preventing me from speaking my mind.

“Oui, oui!
I find her complaints valid. Before you condemn your sister, I wish for you to
honestly
listen.
Do not prepare to reply.
Non!
Hear your sister
with the intent to understand. Try to ‘walk in her shoes,’ yes?
Je vous
assure,
you will not regret your participation.”

Why am I putting
up with this? I should be taking André outside and beating the shit out of him.
I console myself that I can do this later.

“Ma belle,”
he says to my sister, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. “It is well?”

“Yes, thank you,
André,” she replies politely.

Who would’ve
thought? I admit, now I’m intrigued. Betty Jo appears positively meek around
André. Respectful and courteous, he’s leading her by the nose. How does he do
it? How did he gentle the harridan?

My sister turns
away, speaking under her breath to him—maybe asking last-minute questions. He
returns to take a seat on the couch. Betty Jo stands before us.

“Mr. Chevalier
has convinced me that it’s time to talk to… you both,” she begins in an oddly
subdued tone. “I told him…” she hesitates. “I told André… some things. Against
my better judgment, he suggested my issues were a family matter.” She laughs, a
hollow cynical sound. “As if we’ve
ever
been a family.”

When Alex opens
his mouth to speak, André silences him, palm out with an open, unapologetic
hand. “
Pardon,
my friend. We must not interrupt.”

Betty Jo then
launches into a long tirade, expressing how hard she’s had it in life. On our
housekeeper’s days off, she was supposed to cook, do the dishes and clean—just
because she was a girl.

Honestly? I
never noticed.

She complains
our father never took her on his horseback riding excursions. He never took her
shooting or camping when she wanted to go. Excluded, left behind and
overlooked, she
always
wanted to go.

I have to
admit, she has a point.

I find myself
observing her childhood from her point of view. I never gave it much thought,
but I can appreciate how our father’s neglect hurt her. Of course she must have
been jealous—resentful of the attention Alex and I received.

If she only knew.

We all grew up
in a toxic family, full of terrible secrets. No one escapes that kind of
upbringing. We each are injured in our own way.

The only problem
is, Betty Jo blames me.