Nora had made an appointment with Doctor Lerner for 10:30 a.m. Arriving on time, she was met at the door.
The sunshine streamed through the open curtains, giving one the sense of a quiet park. Nora was wearing a full-length dress with long sleeves, which was light blue and decorated with tiny pink flowers. This was accompanied by her traditional low-heeled black shoes. Wearing make-up and sporting a bun-style for her dyed dark hair. It was still easy to see she had been the conservative wife of a Baptist minister.
“Please, have a seat,” Doctor Lerner said as she too made her way around her desk and sat down. “So, what is it you wish to discuss?”
Nora tensed, then relaxed. “I took an early lunch break, so my time is limited. First, I want to thank you for treating my son…”
“You know from working with Father Andy that anything Simon says to me is strictly confidential,” Doctor Lerner stated, not sure where Nora was heading with this conversation.
“Yes, I understand that. I’m here on my behalf, not that of my son.” She spoke in a hurried fashion.
A gentle smile appeared as her eyes worked their magic on Nora. “All right then, just sit back and relax, and tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I’ve been afraid for my very life, that is, until you told me of Simon’s committal. His nightmare used to occur just every other month, but lately, it comes weekly. I was worrying myself sick. I thought he might snap and kill me in my sleep.” The desperation showed in her raspy voice.
“Now, put yourself at ease, Nora. Simon is in a safe, protective environment where he can receive the care he needs,” she reassured her.
“Thank you so very much for helping my boy. I better get back to work; I know Father Andy is expecting you later to discuss Simon’s test results.”
As they stood, Doctor Lerner came around her desk and placed her comforting hand on Nora’s shoulder as they walked to the door.
Time seemed to fly by for it was now time to confer with Father Andy. Making her way down the corridor to his office, she found Nora not at her desk, so she proceeded on to his door and softly knocked.
“Come in!” he shouted.
Entering, she found him sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair.
“Nora mentioned she saw you today, what did you girl’s talk about?” His tone seemed to demand an answer.
Responding sarcastically, “May I sit down before the inquisition starts?”
Father Andy smiled. “By all means, make yourself at home.”
Sitting, she glanced at his old, sad face. “Nora was just voicing her concern for her safety.”
“Well, he’s confined now, she can rest at ease.” He said with no remorse as he continued. “Well, I don’t have all day; did you bring Simon’s test results?”
Staring for a few seconds, her face turned pale. Doctor Lerner slowly produced several papers from a file folder. Swallowing hard, she handed the papers to him. Father Andy spent several minutes reading over the results.
Neurological (EEG) – test shows abnormal EEG.
Intelligence (IQ) – subject score was 93. (Note: 70 or below, mental impairment. 120 or above, genius range)
Essay Evaluation – Following tendencies note: A. Verbal/Physical Abuse. B. Mental Stress/Fatigue. C. Insecurity/Low Self-Esteem. D. Mild Depression. E. Rejection/Feelings of Inadequacy. F. Chemical Dependency. G. Psychosexual Immaturity.
“Simon’s EEG shows abnormal,” Father Andy stated with concern.
“Yes, but as you are aware, that in itself doesn’t suggest anything out of the norm.” She noted in Simon’s defense.
“I see by his IQ score, he’s not too bright.” He continued.
“It’s in the average range; not everyone is a genius.”
“Un-huh,” he mumbled, still reading. “His essay results are interesting. Where is the essay paper he wrote? I want to read it.” His tone was most impertinent.
Doctor Lerner resented him, not because he was white, but because he was a typical old man who had allowed himself to grow arrogant throughout the years. She handed him the folder which contained Simon’s essay. Without even a nod or thank-you, he began to read.
It was sunny and warm. Birds sang, and the sky was a golden blue with feathery white clouds scudding about. Okay. Let’s stop right there. I lied. It wasn’t sunny, it was raining. The birds weren’t singing. The only bird was an old crow sitting on the mailbox across the street, getting wet and waiting for the traffic to die down so he could snack on a dead dog.
The sky wasn’t blue; it was dark-gray and nasty, an all-around crappy day. I was twelve years old. My mother wanted me to go to my aunt and uncle’s house while she and her friends went shopping. I didn’t want to go. My aunt smelled bad, and my uncle was senile. All right, so I lied. He wasn’t senile, but she did smell funny. So my wonderful, loving, caring mother dropped me off at their house. Wait a minute. Let’s clear up something before I continue. Mom wasn’t wonderful, loving and caring. I felt guilty and just said those nice things about her. She was a pain in the rump, bossing me around and sticking her nose into my business. From the way she acted, I thought she got stuck in her PMS cycle and couldn’t get out. She was no salt of the earth. My sister and I called her, “The old lady from hell.”
Yes, I’m telling you a story, a short one. It may seem long, but it won’t be. Let’s get on with it. Mom dropped me off, and I got lucky. The old folks weren’t home, just my seventeen-year-old cousin. He was great. To tell the truth, he was fantastic. Tall, athletic body, nice tan, and lots of girlfriends.
Back then, girls made me sick. I stayed away from the ugly creatures. They were mean and snotty, always wanting to kiss me to get me in trouble. It made me want to puke. Now that I think about it, they haven’t changed much since I grew up.
Where was I? Oh yeah, my cousin. He got to baby-sit me, even though I didn’t consider myself a baby. At twelve, I was a well-built and intelligent kid. Lying? Sure, I’m lying. I know. You think I need therapy. Who doesn’t? Back to my story. I wasn’t intelligent and well built. I was short, fat, and a bit stupid. Since it was raining, we stayed inside, playing games and watching cartoons. I wasn’t into cartoons, but he sat there in a trance, watching that junk.
After two hours, he took me to his bedroom and said we’d play a fun game. He took off his clothes and got on the bed, than he told me to get naked and join him. I don’t know why, but off came my clothes, and on the bed I went.
I do know why. I wanted his approval. I wanted him to like me. I was at that age in life, wanting to fit in and belong. So he had me face down on the bed. He told me to put my arms behind my back, than I had to spread my legs. From his bottom dresser drawer, he produced a pair of hand cuffs and a bottle of baby oil.
Wait a minute. Don’t jump ahead of me. You’ve already assumed I’m going to get handcuffed, and with that baby oil, some unspeakable act is going to occur. You figure this is just another of those child abuse stories that are so popular in today’s society.
You’re wrong! Why? Because I lied about the handcuffs and the baby oil, that’s why.
The truth was, we got naked and jumped onto the bed, but instead of those unspeakable acts of abuse you were just thinking about, he taught me how to masturbate. He was cool about it. He took the time to explain it and show me, using himself as an example. He showed me how to cause an erection, how to manipulate my penis to ejaculation, and how to achieve a full orgasm. It was fantastic! Learning how to masturbate was the highlight of that summer. I did it several times a week for the rest of summer.
Hold it. That was a little white lie. I really masturbated two or three times a day, every day. I was so horny back then. These days, if I cum once I need a nap. Okay, it’s more like eight hours of sleep. It wears me out. (I only cum twice in my dreams)
All right, I confess. I’m lying again. I already knew how to masturbate when we got naked and jumped onto the bed. That wasn’t the first time we did that routine. We’d been doing it for months. It was more of a mutual, oral stimulation thing between us. No, we weren’t homosexuals. At least I wasn’t. It was just fun.
Okay, so it was a gay thing. He was gay. I was sexually confused and a little excited. I was only twelve. That’s pretty young when you are considering sexual awareness. Twelve-year-old boys aren’t expected to be masters at lovemaking. That doesn’t happen until we reach sixteen. At eighteen, we become universal masters of lovemaking.
Sure, I know. I must’ve fallen asleep, and I’ve been dreaming. I’m awake now. Back to my story. Where was I? Oh, I just confessed to it being a gay thing, on his part. That’s another one of those little white lies. I was gay, and he was the one who was sexually confused and a little excited.
Have you figured it out yet? That’s right. I was the seventeen-year-old. He was the twelve-year-old. His mother, who was just like him—short, fat and stupid—dropped him off at our house. My parents were away for the weekend. My dad is senile, and my mother does smell funny.
Anyway, she dropped him off, and we got naked. That’s right. We didn’t play games; we didn’t watch any stupid cartoons, not when there was sex to be had. We were screwing like rabbits in heat. We forgot to use protection, and I got pregnant. You know rubbers or condoms or whatever you call those things. Oh? You want to know how someone can get pregnant when it’s a story about two males. You’ve already guessed haven’t you? I lied. That’s right. I’m really a girl. For seventeen, I was a knockout. I had large, firm breasts and slim, sexy hips. Many men tried to spend an evening alone with me. Are you a little confused at this point? No? I’ll let you in on a little secret. Women make the best liars. It’s because men are so naïve, and most are just plain stupid. I can wiggle my behind and jiggle my boobs, and they’ll believe whatever I tell them. I love having that kind of control over men. Where did I leave off? Ah, yes. I mentioned getting pregnant. You’re probably wondering if I was so smart, how did I get pregnant, and how can I possibly take care of a child at my age?
Its confession time again. No, I am really pregnant…again…but I’m expecting six little ones this litter. That’s right, I said litter! If you guessed I’m a bitch, you’re right. No, not that kind of bitch! I’m a female dog kind of bitch, a toy poodle, all white and fluffy. Well, more dirty and muddy was closer to the truth. I’d been out in the rain, but I didn’t care. I was having fun. The twelve-year-old was a dog too, a solid black Dane. At least, that was how I saw him. You know how it is when you’re in love, your lover always seems better than he is. What was he really? To tell the truth, he was a short, fat beagle.
He was a bit stupid, too. I was in heat, and I wanted him badly. I can’t wait until my owners find out the father of my litter is a beagle. They’ll probably die. Now you see why I didn’t use a condom. I might as well ‘fess up’ to the whole truth since we’ve come this far. It wasn’t raining. It was snowing; I didn’t want you to think I was stupid enough to be standing paw-deep in snow while some dumb beagle was trying to figure out how to mount me.
There I was, shivering in the snow up to my belly. He sniffed my butt while I wondered what a girl had to go through to get laid in her own yard. I wish I had gone with the collie who had come through the neighborhood last week. There was a smooth talker. I didn’t trust him. Must have been the dog collar he wore. His name was SPIKE.
Yes, I laid him too. I admit it. That’s why they call female dogs bitches. We love all the boys. Can you handle one more confession? It’s the last one. I know what you’re thinking. I’ve told a few lies here and there, but those were just little white ones. Really, I’d never lie to someone as nice as you. Come on. It’s true I’m a toy poodle. I mean I was a toy poodle. I’m in doggy heaven now, and that damn collie caused it. I was chasing him and ran across the road, but I didn’t make it. A red pickup truck ran me down. The old jerk didn’t even try to slow down. I was flattened like a pancake.
Now you know why that stupid crow was sitting on the mailbox. He kept swooping down to take bites from my poor dead body. I hope he choked. It’s time for me to go now. Lord Dog is calling. You know what dog spelled backward is, don’t you? That’s right. So when he calls, I come a-running. I just wish he wouldn’t use that darn dog whistle. It hurts my ears.
I just thought of something funny. Since I’m a ghost, and I wrote this story, that would make me a ghostwriter. Oh no, Lord God’s rolling up a newspaper. He must’ve found the slipper I peered on. Gotta go. Yes, I lied again; She’s rolling up a newspaper.
THE END
Father Andy finished reading Simon’s essay and handing it back to Doctor Lerner he said, “Kid has some serious issues, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Nothing that can’t be worked out in therapy,” she replied.
“Well, keep me informed; you may go now,” he said rudely, as if dismissing a subordinate worker.
She could not believe how insensitive he had become. She wondered if it was life itself, or the Catholic Church that made him a miserable, decrepit fellow. There was no spark of true life to be seen in his despondent gaze, merely a lifeless shell that no longer lived, just simply existed.
Standing defiantly, she departed his office without uttering a word, for she knew deep in her heart, she was right about Simon. And the day would soon come, that he too, would know she was right.