Exile
(c) 2003 Anais Ninja anais_ninja@hotmail.com
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html
Note: This is my story. The names and details have been changed to
protect the privacy of those involved. Some of this account has been
reconstructed from memory, but most of it has been based on a journal I
kept during these years.
This is a sequel to _Wanderings_, which can be found on my asstr.org site:
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/wander/index.html
EPILOGUE - Rescue Me (MFf tg teen)
January 1982
Let's talk about happy endings.
You can't live without hope. Sometimes it's the little things, like "I
hope Dee didn't use the last of the conditioner" or "I hope this guy
who's pulling up to the curb doesn't smell too bad". Sometimes it's the
big things: "I hope Cami is okay. She should have been back an hour
ago" or "I hope that my knight in shining armor comes for me".
This last one, the "knight in shining armor", was sometimes the only
reason I'd get out of bed in the morning. The hope that somewhere out
there was another Mr. Sheffield, someone who could take me away from my
life, someone who would love me and protect me, someone I could spend
the rest of my days with, pleasing him, loving him. I wasn't even
particular about who or where; it could have been a woman like Julia or
Trish, or even a cash-strapped cabbie like Larry. Love doesn't know
from dollars or sense. Love doesn't discriminate between cock or cunt.
Don't get me wrong: I loved Cami and Delia, and I liked living with
them, even though the basement apartment was a bit cramped for three
people. But I'd always have a sense of foreboding whenever I hit the
streets. The boys on the next block over were all talking about
something they called "gay cancer", some mysterious disease that was
going around. Even the doctors we saw at the free clinic were puzzled
about it. It was deadly and incurable, and if the opportunistic
pneumonia didn't get you, the fast-spreading sarcomas surely would.
The clinic started giving out free condoms, telling us to use them even
for oral sex. I met a lot of resistance from the men who picked me up,
thinking that only gay people caught it, that they were somehow immune.
I began to obsess about my knight in shining armor, retreating into my
adolescent fantasy even when I was out on the street, when I should have
been more aware of my surroundings, my situation, the danger I placed
myself in every day. Sometimes I'd even imagine I could see him,
charging up the avenue on a white steed, street lamps reflecting off of
his polished armor as he dodged taxis and buses and men cruising for a
piece. He'd lean over as he approached, scooping me up from the
sidewalk and on to his saddle, and we'd gallop off into the sky, making
the clouds our highway. I'd dream about him, too, always waking up just
as I reached for his visor, lifting it so I could see his face. Or
hers.
It was the week after Thanksgiving and I was on the street one evening.
The long weekend had been dead slow, the streets virtually deserted, our
clientele more concerned about family and Christmas shopping than a
quick suck in a car or in an alley. I'd just given one guy the brush-
off. He wanted to fuck me, but he didn't want to pay for the room.
Cami and I and some of the other girls on the street had an arrangement
with the owner of a rooming house on Chandler Street, above one of the
neighborhood's gay bars. He'd rent one of his rooms for $20 per hour,
with a $50 deposit for the key, refundable upon return. It was safer
and more comfortable than trying to do it on the cold vinyl seat of
someone's car, parked in an alley where no one could hear you scream.
I was disappointed. It would have been nice to feel some heat for a
little while, both from the radiator in the rented room and from a warm
body on top of me, inside me. The money would have been nice, too. On
the other hand, I was proud of myself for not giving in to the guy;
doing things on my own terms had kept me alive and healthy so far. I
wasn't about to change now, not for the $100 he'd offered me to do it in
his back seat.
Another car approached a few minutes later, a nice car, a big car, the
orange tint of the city's street lights glinting off of metallic silver
fenders. As it came closer and slowed down, I saw it was a Mercedes,
just like Julia's, only newer. The car stopped and a dark tinted window
lowered with an electric whine. There were two people in the front
seat, a man and a woman. I couldn't make out his face because it was
dark, but there was something familiar about the blonde lady in the fur
coat.
"Anne?" she called out. "Annie?" I stepped off the curb to get a
closer look. Then it clicked: her hair was different, but I recognized
her face.
"Helen? Helen?!?" I rushed to the car's door and she threw her arms
around me through the open window. As I hugged her, I realized that it
was Bradley at the wheel. He leaned over and squeezed my arm, holding
on to me as if something was about to snatch me away.
"We thought we'd never see you again," Helen said, kissing my cheek.
"Helen...," was all I could say, more of a sob than a name. She and her
husband had been Julia's closest friends, and hugging her felt almost
like I was hugging Julia herself.
"Annie, what are you doing out here?" Bradley asked. I couldn't answer,
but it must have been obvious: I was wearing a red miniskirt and
fishnets, and a fuzzy white cashmere sweater under a short red jacket
with fake fur trim around the cuffs, hem, and hood. Cami jokingly
called this outfit my "Santa Whore costume".
"Annie, get in the car," Helen said, releasing her hold on me so she
could open the door. She got out and had me scoot over the seat next to
Bradley, and then she got in, holding me again as I sat between them. I
leaned my head against her shoulder, burying my face in her fur coat
while she caressed me and kissed my cheek. Bradley put the car in gear
and pulled away from the curb. A couple of minutes later we were on the
turnpike heading west to their house in the suburbs.
The house was just as I remembered it, tall white columns flanking the
front entrance, double doors with gleaming brass knobs and knocker.
Helen held me as we left the car in the circular driveway, holding me up
because my knees felt weak and rubbery. It hardly felt real. It was
like a dream.
If it had been a dream, then Julia would be waiting for me, sitting on
the couch, dressed in her silk nightgown, a glass of wine in her hand
and a book of poetry in her lap. But it wasn't a dream. Julia wasn't
there, waiting to give me a hug and a kiss.
The leather couch felt real, though, as did the snifter of brandy that
Bradley put in my hands. I inhaled the woody scent and sipped it, a
welcome feeling of warmth spreading through my body. Helen put away her
coat and sat next to me on the couch while Bradley mixed a drink for
her.
"After Julia passed away, we looked all over for you," Helen said as
Bradley handed her a Manhattan in a highball glass. "Child Services up
in Maine gave us no end of trouble when we were trying to track you
down."
"By the time we found where you were, you'd run away," Bradley said.
"Julia..." I said. Until now, my grief had been private, no one to
share it with. But now, sitting on the couch with Helen holding me in
her arms, I began to let it all out, pressing my head against her
breasts and sobbing. I could feel her chest heaving, too, as she cried
with me, her tears dripping on to my face and mingling with my own.
"Poor baby," Helen whispered. "Let it out, Annie. Let it all out."
It could have been ten minutes. It could have been an hour. I lost
track of time, but by the end, when no more tears would come, I felt as
light as a feather. Bradley handed me another glass of brandy and Helen
dried my puffy eyes, black streaks of my mascara staining the tissue.
"What were you doing in town?" I asked. "Were you still looking for
me?" Bradley cleared his throat, and Helen lifted my chin, looking me
in the eye.
"Not exactly," she said. "Brad?"
"We, um, like to have company sometimes," he said, swirling his drink,
making the ice clink against the glass.
"Sometimes it's a boy, sometimes it's a girl like you," Helen said.
What she didn't have to say was that they shared their bed with whoever
they picked up, paying them and driving them back to the South End the
next morning. It was pure chance that they happened to be looking for a
girl that night; they could have easily passed on to the next block,
where the boys where. Pure chance, a flip of the coin. And had I gone
with the guy who was too cheap to rent a room, I'd never have seen them,
either. I wondered how many nights I'd been out there, just missing
them by a minute or an hour or a day.
"Helen," I whispered, pressing my lips against hers. I sometimes
dreamed that I was back in the old house in Maine, and the house was on
fire. A fireman would ascend a long ladder and rescue me, carrying me
out of the house on his shoulder and laying me on a stretcher.
Invariably, the dream would end with me wrapping my arms around his neck
and kissing him passionately, to show my gratitude for being rescued,
for saving my life. I could smell the smoke in his clothes, taste the
sweat on his skin, and then I'd wake up. When I kissed Helen, I felt
the same way.
"Annie, you don't have to..." she started to say, but I cut her off,
kissing her again. This time her lips yielded, parted, and our tongues
melted together. I felt Bradley sitting down next to me, his hand on my
thigh, caressing me through the mesh of my fishnet stockings. I sat
between them, still kissing Helen as he brushed the hair from my face
and began to nibble my ear and kiss my neck. A few minutes later, they
helped me up from the couch and into their bedroom.
I'd forgotten how big Bradley was down there, as big as Mr. Sheffield.
As Helen kissed and caressed my back, I greedily licked and sucked his
cock, trying to resist the compulsion to give him a quick front-seat-of-
the-car blowjob, forcing myself to slow down, to make it last. He took
me from behind as his wife played with my breasts and fingered my
button, and afterwards, she licked his cum from my pussy, making me come
over and over again on their huge bed. I returned the favor, licking
her juicy slit, getting her ready for her husband's thick tool, suckling
her nipples while he pounded her snatch.
We sat in the kitchen afterwards, Bradley mixing another round of drinks
while Helen made me a can of soup, having given her maid the night off,
as she usually did when they went looking for someone to share their
bed. I called Cami on the phone, just to let her know I was okay.
Helen had asked me to spend the night in their bed with them, and I
jumped at the chance. I felt safe with them, like the whole year had
been a nightmare and I'd just woken up.
We talked for hours, and I told them everything, holding nothing back,
starting with the foster home and Mr. Hubbard, running away, sleeping in
bathrooms, meeting Michael, getting beaten up and kicked out by his
girlfriend, the cathedral and the shelter, Father Ken and the other
priests, Manny and Billy and Chris and Megan, Mr. O'Hare, Trish, the men
who were looking for me, the abandoned brownstone, Mr. Antonelli, Larry,
Cecil, Mr. Sheffield, Cami and Delia, my life on the street. It all
came out in a torrent of words, punctuated only by sobs when I recalled
a particularly painful memory. Bradley held my hand and Helen dried my
tears as they listened to me recount the events of the past year.
"Such a hard life," Helen whispered, kissing the tears from my cheek.
"I've got something to tell you," Bradley said, rubbing my shoulders.
"Might make you feel a bit better."
Julia had remembered me in her will, leaving a trust in my name. It
wasn't a fortune, but it was more than enough to send me to the college
of my choice, as well as provide for my living expenses from now until
after graduation. That's why Bradley and Helen were searching for me in
Maine. He was co-executor of Julia's estate and my trustee. Helen held
me while I cried again, tears of joy this time. It was Julia's way of
showing her love for me even in death. She really was in Heaven looking
out for me; she really was my guardian angel. I whispered a silent
prayer for her, Hail, Julia, full of grace...
I spent the night in bed with Bradley and Helen, too exhausted from my
emotional catharsis to do anything but curl up between them and fall
asleep, feeling secure between them, truly safe for the first time in a
long, hard year. The next morning we had breakfast. It had snowed
overnight and the trees looked beautiful, limbs and branches draped in
heavy white clumps of snow.
"Annie, we have something to ask you," Helen said, putting down her
coffee cup and reaching out for my hand.
"We'd like you to stay with us," Bradley said.
"Another night?" I asked.
"No," Helen replied. "Permanently. As a member of our family."
I didn't know what to say. Part of me wanted to be back with Cami and
Delia, in the tiny apartment we shared, my artificial family. I loved
them and I didn't want to feel like I'd be deserting them. Who would
watch out for Cami? Who would memorize the license plates of the cars
she got into?
But there was also a calm voice in the back of my mind, telling me that
this is what Julia would have wanted. I could be a normal fourteen-
year-old girl again, worrying about homework and tests, obsessing over
boys and clothes, and not putting my life and health in jeopardy every
time a car pulled up to the curb. No more sweaty, smelly crotches, no
more shivering in the cold.
I said yes.
While Bradley went into work that day, Helen drove me back to Delia's
place to pick up my things. Cami and I held each other and cried, and
even Dee got teary, holding the two of us as we wept together.
"I'm so sorry, Cami," I sobbed. "I don't want to leave you."
"I know baby," she said, her voice cracking. "But you gotta take this.
It's a once-in-a-lifetime thing."
"I'll miss you," I said. "I promise to visit. I promise."
"I know you will," she said. "Sisters forever?"
"Sisters forever," I repeated. I hugged Dee again, and then Helen
helped me with my stuff, loading it all into the car. Before we headed
back to her home, I had her drive me around the neighborhood, showing
her the shelter, Mr. Antonelli's rooming house (which was boarded up),
the abandoned building where I'd hidden for a few days, Cecil's loft.
And then we were back on the turnpike, leaving the city behind, heading
back to the snow-covered trees and the blanketed lawns of the suburbs.
* * *
Bradley and Helen took wonderful care of me. Carrie, their daughter,
was living with her boyfriend in Manhattan while she attended Columbia,
so I stayed in her room whenever I wasn't sharing their bed. Helen took
me to her doctor, and I was examined and tested for various sexually
transmitted diseases. None were found, fortunately. The doctor knew
about my sexual history and told me I had lucked out. I knew
differently; it had to be my guardian angel, Julia, watching over me.
Bradley managed to get legal guardianship over me. It wasn't easy, but
he was an experienced lawyer, and the fact that he was already my
trustee certainly helped. I had to speak to a family court judge, and
tell him that this was something I wanted to do. I was nervous sitting
in his paneled chambers, but I managed to convince him. There was a
thirty-day waiting period until the arrangement became permanent, with
those small public notices being placed in the classified section of the
newspaper, as well as a perfunctory search for my biological father, my
only living blood relative. Until these formalities were taken care of,
I was in Bradley and Helen's temporary custody.
Helen hired a tutor, to get me up to speed before I started school again
in January. I showed the tutor my spiral notebook, the one I used to
write down answers to the problems in the used textbooks I'd bought
while I lived at the rooming house. Somehow, I'd gotten more answers
right than wrong, even the algebra, which sometimes twisted my head into
knots. I'd been a bit lax while I was staying at Delia's place,
spending most of my time on the street or doing housework and laundry,
but between the textbooks and the tutor I managed to pass an entrance
exam for a private school, the Country Day School, and get accepted for
the next semester. It was an expensive place, but Helen insisted on
sending me there, saying that she and Bradley could easily afford the
tuition.
As Christmas approached, Bradley bought a tree for the living room, even
though he and Helen were Jewish. It was just for me, to make me feel at
home, part of the family. Brightly wrapped presents began to appear
under the tree, and Helen was more than happy to take me shopping so
that I'd have presents of my own to give. I celebrated Hanukkah with
them, helping Helen light the candles every night, listening to her tell
me about a miracle that happened ages ago.
I began to believe in miracles again. The fact that Bradley and Helen
had somehow found me was proof enough.
Helen loved to take me shopping, happy to have a "daughter" she could
dote upon again, buying me clothes and shoes and jewelry, things that
were more "age-appropriate", as Father Ken would say. Though my beloved
vintage dresses had a place of pride in the closet in Carrie's room, I
began to pack away the things I'd worn when I was working, the short
skirts, the tight sweaters, the tall boots and high heeled shoes.
Though short, flouncy skirts were coming into style back then, my new
wardrobe took on a somewhat preppy flavor, demure plaid skirts and
pastel twin sets.
I looked forward to going to school again. Sometimes I'd feel restless
in the house, and I'd spend an hour or so burning off energy on the
exercise bike in the basement. There were weights down there, too;
Brad, their son, the blond Adonis I'd fallen for the year before liked
to use them. I didn't lift them, but they were a reminder that I'd see
him soon, when he came home from the Deerfield Academy for winter break.
I was intellectually restless, too. Bradley and Helen had seemingly
thousands of books, and even had a room just for reading, with
comfortable chairs and a plush couch. I'd spend hours in there,
picking random titles from the shelves, sitting down to read with a warm
quilt in my lap. Helen would bring me tea with milk and honey and join
me, her reading glasses balanced on her nose, the room silent except for
the sound of pages turning and the singing of the winter wind outside.
There was one book that I found, not on the shelves but among the things
that Carrie had left behind when she moved in with her boyfriend in New
York, a book that struck a deep chord within me. It was _The Diary of a
Young Girl_ by Anne Frank. I opened it to a random page and started
reading, and then I started at the beginning, reading practically the
entire book in one sitting. I was reduced to tears at times, sometimes
sobbing hysterically. Helen held me and comforted me, dried my eyes and
made tea for me, but she never made me put the book down. She knew it
was important to me.
It wasn't just that her situation sometimes mirrored my own, especially
the days after I left Trish's apartment and hid in the derelict building
while faceless men were searching for me, or that we shared a first
name. What grabbed my heart was how Anne was always trying to maintain
some semblance of a normal adolescence even though she and her family
were hidden away in an Amsterdam attic, where even the slightest sound
would betray their presence. I wept for Anne's lost childhood, the
years that were robbed from her, the love she'd never know.
I began to have nightmares after that, vivid dreams in which I'd be back
in the abandoned brownstone, rats scratching in the walls, jackboots on
the stone steps, the sound of the boarded-up door being kicked in while
I shivered on the old stained mattress, clutching Manny's folding knife
in my trembling hand. Sometimes I'd dream that I was back in the
shelter or the foster home, unseen hands holding me down on Father Ken's
desk while old Mr. Hubbard forced himself inside me. I'd wake up
screaming and Helen and Bradley would hold me until I calmed down.
Helen took me to a counselor, a middle-aged woman with a soothing,
softly accented voice who had an office just outside the city, in
Brookline. I'd lie on her couch and close my eyes and talk about
whatever came into my head, my nightmares, my guilt that I couldn't
prevent Megan from getting hurt, how I felt as if everyone that I loved
who had died, even Mr. Antonelli, had somehow abandoned me, betrayed me.
I began to realize what a mess I was inside.
The therapist, Mrs. Horowitz, listened patiently as I talked, sometimes
gently steering my monologue, helping me to realize that my answers were
all there, within me, locked away in my head. I needed only to find the
key.
When she asked me what had triggered my nightmares, I began to talk
about Anne Frank, her lost youth, how hard it was to stay sane in an
insane world. There was a long, deep silence when I finished, and I
looked over at Mrs. Horowitz, who was gazing at me with a distant look
in her eyes, a single tear falling down her cheek. Suddenly I realized
that had Anne survived, she'd be Mrs. Horowitz's age. I felt a chill
creeping down my spine.
"You were there, weren't you?" I asked her. "In the camps."
Mrs. Horowitz nodded, reaching for one of the five boxes of tissues in
her soundproofed office.
"Why? Why do these things happen?" I thought about Anne, dying of
typhus just weeks before the Allies liberated the camp. I thought about
Megan, who had been so close to death that if I had tripped on the
slippery sidewalk just one more time she might have bled to death.
"At Belsen there was a rabbi, a learned man, who said that it is God
that lets these things happen," she said, her voice cracking, her accent
thickening just a bit. "That faith and love must be tested sometimes."
"Do you believe that?" I asked her.
"No," she said, shaking her head slowly.
"What do you believe in?" I asked. I had struggled with my faith ever
since my mother was killed. My answer had been to pray to Julia, hoping
her memory would give me strength when I most needed it.
"In spite of everything, I still believe that people are truly good at
heart," she said, paraphrasing Anne's very words.
This was one of the keys I needed, to free me from the chains of guilt
and betrayal that held me down, the nightmares that made me dread
falling asleep at night. Mrs. Horowitz gave me a prescription for some
pills, tranquilizers and soporifics, just something to get me through
this stormy weather, to calm my emotional winds. I hardly needed them;
just talking to her made me feel so much better. The nightmares
stopped, and soon Mrs. Horowitz told me that it was time for me to stand
on my own two feet. She encouraged me to keep writing in my journal,
that it was an effective form of therapy, and that I should always try
to go back and read what I'd written periodically, to maintain a sense
of perspective. At the end of our last session I hugged her and thanked
her, and I left her office seeing the world anew.
The other sour note that winter was Brad's return from school for winter
vacation. He came home with a load of dirty laundry and some bad grades
for the semester. He seemed like a completely different person, too,
sullen, withdrawn, never once looking me in the eye. I'd been so
excited to see him again having just missed his Thanksgiving visit home,
carefully primping myself in preparation for his return, and now it was
all ashes in my mouth. He'd wolf down his dinner and then go up to his
room, and whenever I knocked on his door to talk to him, he'd turn his
music up, drowning out my voice. I even tried sneaking into his room at
night, just to talk, since making love with him was out of the question,
but his door was always locked. Brad stayed for two days and then left
to go on a skiing trip with friends of his, and it was as if he'd never
been home at all.
I was still seeing Mrs. Horowitz when this happened, and when I asked
her why he was so cold, so rejecting, she had but two words to say:
"People change". I could accept the truth in these words, but it was a
different thing entirely to experience it first hand. Most of the
people in my life had been taken from me before I really had a chance to
see this happen. I wondered if even Julia could have fallen out of love
with me, and the thought made me shudder.
I got over it, though. I still had the memory of his visit to Julia's
house two summers before, though what I'd thought was the beginning of
our love affair was merely a three-day fling, a mere bauble instead of a
precious jewel. Maybe there was someone else, maybe he didn't want a
girlfriend who was just fourteen, almost four years younger than he,
maybe he'd heard about my year on the streets somehow and thought of me
as "damaged goods". Helen swore to me that she hadn't mentioned
anything to her son, but I knew she'd mentioned a few things to Carrie,
in whose room I was staying. Perhaps that's how Brad knew. Regardless,
I tried not to let this ruin my holidays. Christmas at the foster home
had been a drab affair, with a scrawny tree, unadorned, forgotten in a
corner, not a single present underneath. I wanted this one to be extra
special.
* * *
On Christmas Day Helen woke me up with a kiss, bringing me downstairs to
the living room, to the tree that they'd bought for me. Bradley was
waiting with coffee, and they watched, seated on the rug with me, as I
opened my presents. They had bought me a lovely new sweater, a skirt to
match, a strand of pearls to go with them, and a cherry red silk
chemise. There were fun gifts, gag gifts, too, like a new vibrator,
batteries included, and even one of those puzzle cubes with six
different colors on each side. There were presents from me under the
tree as well, a nice Italian silk tie and jeweled cufflinks for Bradley,
a supple ivory satin nightgown and a gold necklace for Helen.
There was one last gift, a gift that hadn't been under the tree. Helen
handed it to me, a flat, square object wrapped in gilt paper and tied
with a red ribbon. I opened it carefully, trying not to wrinkle the
pretty wrapping paper or tear the ribbon. Inside was a framed
photograph of Julia, taken when she was younger, her not-yet-grey hair
flowing in the breeze, a broad beach and blue ocean water in the
background. She was smiling, her eyes sparkling in the bright sunlight.
"It was taken on her honeymoon with Thomas," Helen said.
"Julia..." I whispered, bringing the photograph to my lips and pressing
them against the glass and then clutching the frame to my heart. Tears
began to form in my eyes.
"She wanted you to have it," Bradley said. "It was in her will. She
wanted you to always remember her like this, young and in love."
"Thank you," I whispered to Bradley and Helen, the lump in my throat
choking my voice. "Thank you," I said again, this time to Julia. Helen
put her arms around me and held me. Bradley must have known this would
happen, because he was right there with the box of tissues, blotting the
tears from my cheeks.
After we had breakfast, Helen drove me in town, back to Delia's
apartment. I had gifts for Dee and Cami, but most of all I just wanted
to see them again. Delia was still asleep, but Cami had just woken up,
and she answered the door in her yellow kimono, still groggy, rubbing
her eyes. While Helen put on some coffee, Cami and I exchanged gifts.
I'd bought her a locket on a gold chain, a heart just like the one Mr.
Sheffield had bought for me. I knew Cami loved the one I had, the one I
still wore under my sweater. I also bought her a translucent white
babydoll nightie, a lacy little confection that she just adored.
There were gifts for Dee, too, a dangly pair of earrings that I thought
would go well with one of her many sequined evening gowns, and an Eartha
Kitt album, one of the few she didn't already own, that I'd found in a
vintage record store in town. There was one last gift for Cami, and I
was glad Delia wasn't awake to see it. I pulled an envelope from my
purse, about half of the money I'd saved up while I lived there,
withdrawn from my bank account the day before.
"Don't let Dee see this," I told Cami. "She'll want her cut. This is
just for you, okay?"
"Annie, I couldn't..." Cami said.
"Please. Take it," I said, pressing it into her hand. "I know it isn't
enough to get the breast implants you want, but it's a start. And maybe
you can see a real doctor and get some better shots." Cami got her
female hormones from a man in Chinatown who may or may not have gone to
medical school, and who injected her with grey-market hormones that he
had shipped over from Singapore.
"Annie...I don't know what to say," she said, kissing me again. "Thank
you."
"Sisters forever," I whispered, hugging her again.
"Forever," she said, a crack in her voice.
"Hey, before we both start crying you should try on the nightie," I
said. "I want to make sure it fits." Cami kissed me once more and
smiled, taking off her kimono and panties and slipping into the sheer
white babydoll. Just as she was pulling the matching sheer panties up
her milk chocolate thighs, Helen came out of the kitchen with a mug of
coffee for Cami. There was a thud as the coffee cup hit the wooden
floor. The mug broke into two pieces and Helen took a frantic step
back, avoiding the splash of hot coffee.
"I...I'm sorry," Helen stammered, her eyes fixed on a spot between
Cami's legs. "I'll clean this up right away."
"I'll help," I said, leaving Cami and accompanying Helen back into the
kitchen.
"I'm sorry," Helen said again, once we were out of earshot. "I know you
told me about him...her...but..."
"I know. It's different in person," I said, pulling a wad of paper
towels from the roll over the sink. "She's not a freak, Helen."
"You're right," Helen said, taking the paper towels from my hand. "It
must be so hard for her."
"You have no idea," I said, knowing the adversities Cami had faced
growing up in a small town in Georgia, born into a body that wasn't
really hers.
Delia came out of her bedroom just as Helen was kneeling on the floor
outside the kitchen, wiping up the coffee that had spilled and
collecting the pieces of the mug. She was wrapped in her long robe and
looked disoriented, as if she'd been up late and hadn't had much sleep.
"There's a white woman cleaning my floor," Dee said. "I must've died
and gone to Heaven." Even Helen laughed at that.
Cami and Helen disappeared into the kitchen to dispose of the damp
towels and make more coffee while Delia and I sat in the living room,
opening the gifts I'd given her. She loved the earrings, but the Eartha
Kitt album left her speechless, her lower lip trembling as her eyes
began to water.
"I miss having you around, Annie," she said, trying to compose herself.
"I miss you, too," I said, hugging her.
Cami and Helen came out of the kitchen with fresh mugs of coffee, and
then Cami disappeared into her bedroom, returning with a pair of gift
wrapped boxes, handing them to me. I really hadn't expected a present
from her, and this caught me by surprise.
"This is from me and Dee," she said. I opened them. One box had a pair
of white patent leather go-go boots, straight from the Sixties. The
other contained a vintage a-line minidress with a pop art motif, thick
black lines and blocks of primary colors, like a painting by Mondrian,
something Twiggy might have worn in 1968. I knew that Cami had picked
these out for me, and probably paid for them as well, but I hugged both
her and Delia, thanking them for these wonderful gifts.
"What can I do to make it up to her?" Helen asked when we were back in
her car, heading home.
"Who, Cami?" I asked.
"Yes," Helen said. "She saw me staring at his...her penis."
"Cami's got thick skin," I said. "She'll be fine."
"Still...," Helen said, frowning.
"You're curious, aren't you," I said.
"Curious?"
"I was when I first met her," I said. "I was dying to know what she'd
feel like inside me, our tits rubbing together." Helen shifted in her
seat as we slowed down to pay a toll on the turnpike, a flush blooming
on her cheeks.
"Sometimes I have to remind myself that you're fourteen going on forty,
Anne," she said, lobbing coins into the white plastic basket at the
tollbooth.
* * *
It was on New Year's Eve when we drove into town to pick up Cami. Delia
was singing that night and Cami left a note telling her where she'd be.
We went out to dinner at a nice place in town and then drove back home,
back to the suburbs. While Bradley uncorked a bottle of Moet, Cami and
I changed into our nighties. She donned the sheer white babydoll I'd
given her for Christmas, and I wore the pink nightie I'd bought at Mrs.
Pomerantz's shop that day I first met Trish.
We rejoined Bradley and Helen in their bedroom. She wore the ivory
nightgown I'd given her for Christmas but Bradley was naked, his half-
hard cock bobbing between his legs as he poured champagne for us. We
sat in their big bed and watched 1981 turn to 1982, toasting just as the
brilliantly lit ball in Times Square descended.
Helen made the first move, lifting Cami's nightie and suckling her
nipples as she stroked Cami's penis through her sheer panties. Bradley
lay behind me on the bed, caressing my thighs as we watched Helen and
Cami make love. I turned around and began to suck him as he watched his
wife take Cami's cock in her mouth. Once Cami was hard and glistening
Helen mounted her, guiding the dark spear into her cleft. Bradley had
my panties off by this time, licking my pussy and climbing on top of me.
I held Cami's hand as we lay on the bed, Helen riding her hardness while
Bradley slowly pumped my moist snatch.
We spent hours in that bed, coupling in all conceivable combinations.
Cami sucked Bradley's cock and then he took her from behind while Helen
and I fingered each other and watched. Then we licked the cum from each
other, making each other buck and thrash on the satin sheets while Cami
and Bradley rested up. I mounted Bradley again, taking Cami in my ass,
Helen laying next to us and playing with our tits while we rocked
together, trying to find the right rhythm. We all ended up spent, tired
from the meal, the champagne, the sex, falling asleep in a twisted pile
of arms and legs and naked bodies.
When Bradley drove her home the next morning, Cami was $1000 richer,
enough to be able to afford the tits she wanted.
"You were right," Helen said, making coffee for us while we waited for
Bradley to return. "Her tits felt wonderful against mine."
"You know, you can always buy me a strap-on," I said, making her laugh
as she poured water into the coffee maker.
* * *
In those first days of 1982, I managed to tie up some of the loose ends
of my life. I'd sent a Christmas card to Mr. Sheffield, through his
firm, and he sent letter in reply, telling me about his holiday with his
daughter. I wondered if he'd touched her, or if he'd somehow gotten it
out of his system when he was with me. The truth was somewhere in
between: he'd found someone in London, a girl who looked like me, like
his daughter, another surrogate for his desires.
Larry was doing pretty well, having dug himself out of his child support
hole, even buying another taxi medallion. He called it an investment in
his daughter's future, as that piece of tin riveted to the trunk of a
cab was appreciating rapidly, already going from the $65,000 he'd
borrowed to pay for it, approaching the $100,000 mark, giving him some
equity to work with. The last I'd heard from him he was about to buy
another medallion.
Larry had followed Cecil's travels through the legal system, mostly
relying on what was reported in the newspapers and on television. Cecil
had pled guilty, sparing himself and his family the public humiliation
of a trial, and was sentenced to twenty years in prison on various
charges. The cops had stopped looking for me, the trail now cold.
I tried to find out what had happened to Manny, Billy, and especially
Megan. Bradley made some discreet inquiries through a Family Court
clerk magistrate who was an old friend from college. Their records
weren't merely sealed; they were missing altogether, a bit of
legerdemain worthy of the Witness Protection Program. Bradley had to
drop his search, lest he leave a trail that could lead back to me. The
Church had circled the wagons, and the real story behind Father Kenton
Foley and his shelter wouldn't come out for another twenty years,
courtesy of a Boston newspaper's investigative reporting team.
There was one other loose end in my life. On a cold day in early
January, Bradley and Helen drove me to a cemetery in Cambridge, a place
where many famous people had been buried. Julia was laid to rest here,
and we stopped off to buy flowers for her grave, long-stemmed red roses
instead of the usual calla lilies.
Her headstone was in a copse, a small depression surrounded by tall
trees with bare branches. A cold wind blew that day as I knelt by her
grave, placing a dozen red roses on the mound of earth beneath which she
lay in repose, at rest, at peace forever more. It was close to the
anniversary of her death, and though I would have liked to visit her
sooner, but between the nightmares I'd been having and Brad giving me
the cold shoulder, Helen felt that I wasn't strong enough to do this
until now.
But on this day I had the fortitude, the strength to kneel by her grave
and talk to her, to lay my flowers on her final resting place. A single
tear streamed down my cheek, nearly freezing as it stopped at my chin,
Bradley and Helen keeping a respectable distance, letting me commune
with her, speak to her.
"I'm safe now, Julia. You can rest now, you can stop worrying about me.
I'm with Bradley and Helen and they're going to take good care of me.
Thank you for watching over me, for keeping me safe." I touched the
cold headstone that had her name engraved in it, just below the name of
Thomas, her husband.
"I'll always love you, Julia."
Bradley and Helen each placed a pebble on Julia's headstone, next to a
few others. It was a tradition, something to show that the grave had
been visited, that the departed one hadn't been forgotten. I did the
same and then we drove back home in silence.
There was a message waiting on the answering machine, and Bradley went
into his den to return the call. He came back out a few minutes later.
"Annie, I think I've found your father," he said.
* * *
So, here I sit in Terminal C at Logan Airport, writing in my journal
while I wait for my flight to be called. Bradley and Helen drove me to
the airport and saw me off at the gate. School doesn't start for
another two weeks, but I'll be flying back to Boston from Phoenix after
a ten day visit.
The search for my father had come up empty at first, but it had to be
done in order for Bradley and Helen to become my legal guardians. Even
though the search was fruitless at first, due diligence had been
satisfied. It wasn't until later that it became known that a folder had
been misfiled, and though it was too late to affect the results of the
guardianship petition, I still felt like I had to see my father, my only
living blood relative. Even so, in talking to him on the phone, I felt
like I was talking to a stranger. He was eager to see me though. It
had been over ten years.
My father, Frank Mercer, lives just outside of Phoenix, in a development
called Rancho Paradiso, a community of nice homes built around an 18-
hole golf course. He sells real estate there, and lives in one of the
first homes built at Rancho Paradiso, along with his third wife, who is
seven months pregnant with his child. Also living with him are two
children from his previous marriage, a boy and a girl, their mother
having run off a few years before to live with some religious group at
their ashram in Oregon.
Talking to my father reminded me of one of my earliest memories, from
when I was three, sitting in the bath while my he rubbed a washcloth
between my legs, pressing the cloth into my cunny. The memory made me
feel uncomfortable, and I shifted in the terminal's plastic seat,
wondering if he was the same person who had been caught with the
babysitter by my mother, an event that led to their divorce. The words
Mrs. Horowitz had said to me when I was upset over Brad's sudden
coldness came back to me: "People change". I guess I'll find out how
true that is in this case.
They're calling my flight now. I'm sitting across from the tall glass
windows that look out on the apron, the runways, the ocean beyond. The
plane is directly opposite from me, the sun glinting off of its shiny
silver skin. In a few minutes I'll be airborne, galloping off into the
sky, the clouds my highway.
Coopersport, Maine
February 2003
* * *
(c) 2003 Anais Ninja anais_ninja@hotmail.com
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html