Chapter 3

Sandra Huxley carried a bridge chair to the living room window and sat down. Parting the closed drapes no more than a couple of inches, she used one eye to peer at the street in front of her house like a voyeur. From this vantage point, she could see anyone who walked past, like Peter Waxler coming home from school.

The story Madison had told her about their next door neighbors, Peter Waxler and his mother, had shocked her. Her heart went out to the boy. She had never gotten along with his mother, but she had never realized Tiffany was a child abuser. A monster. Her first thought had been to call Social Services, but the way Madison had described Peter, he wouldn’t have made a good victim when interrogated. Madison didn’t think Peter realized how screwed up his life was. So Sandra had to find out for herself.

Sandra had told her daughter to go directly to her friend’s house after school for a few hours. When asked why, all Sandra had told Madison was that she needed time alone to talk to Peter. Madison had understood immediately, although she had no idea what her mother had planned.

Having spent the day at the office worrying, and therefore not getting much work done, Sandra had left early and rushed home. Now, with the drape tickling her cheek and one eye peeking through the slit, she could hardly breathe. She anxiously wiped the sweaty palm of the hand not holding the drape on the top of the skirt she had worn to work and nervously ground her teeth.

She watched and waited.

Sandra’s breath caught. There he was, her young neighbor. She jumped from the chair, dashed to the front door, and flung it open.

“Peter!” Sandra shouted.

Her heart thumped. Her breathing was ragged. Her body tense. Peter stopped and turned to face her. Recognition and then fear filled his face.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, “I didn’t mean to do it.”

Sandra remembered her daughter telling her how docile Peter was, that he did what his mother told him to do.

“Peter, come here right now. I want to talk to you.”

Peter hung his head and trudged up the path to Sandra with slow, heavy steps. When she stepped aside, he didn’t move. An impatient Sandra latched onto his bookbag strap and yanked him into the house. After closing the door, she half shoved and half dragged him into the living room, stopping at the chair he had sat on the day before. She waited with her hands on her hips, but Peter didn’t sit so she went to the chair across from him and plopped down. Peter’s eyes immediately went to her legs.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Sandra asked.

Peter’s bottom lip stuck out. “Madison said she wasn’t going to tell you.”

“She’s just trying to help you. So am I. That’s why I want to have this talk.”

“Are you mad at me?” Peter asked.

“No, of course not. Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because I didn’t ask permission.”

Sandra’s eyebrows furrowed. “Permission for what?”

“For looking up your dress.”

Sandra instinctively pressed her thighs together and looked down. What was Peter talking about? She smoothed her skirt over her legs.

“Peter, do you mean looking up Mrs. Munsk’s dress and that other woman’s? I don’t remember her name. Madison told me about that. That’s what—”

“No, your dress. I saw your white panties.”

Sandra looked at her black skirt and thought back to getting dressed that morning.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Sandra said, “but I’m wearing black ones. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Not today. Yesterday.”

“What! You saw up my dress yesterday?!”

“Didn’t Madison tell you?”

“No. She told me about the others. You saw up mine? And Madison knew?”

“I told her. She said she wouldn’t tell you.”

“She didn’t. She kept your secret. But, oh my god, when did you see up my dress?”

“When your feet were on the table. I was sitting in this chair.” Peter thrust a thumb at the chair he was standing next to. “Am I in trouble?”

“Well, I’m not happy about it, but no, you’re not in trouble. Your mother lets you look up her friends’ dresses so you don’t know any better. But it’s wrong.”

“But they let me. They don’t get mad. They like it. And Mommy likes when I do it.”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about. It’s wrong.”

“Why is it wrong if Mommy says it’s okay?”

Because his mother was a monster, that’s why. But Sandra couldn’t say that.

“It’s just not right,” Sandra said.

She immediately regretted her answer. It was like giving her daughter the answer, “Because,” to an uncomfortable question. That wasn’t going to help Peter.

Sandra stood up and walked to where Peter was still standing. She took his hand and, this time gently, walked the few steps to the couch and sat, pulling him down next to her. She turned toward him and grabbed his other hand with her free hand, clutching both in hers.

“Peter,” Sandra said, staring into the boy’s eyes, “you’re at the age where you’re curious about a girl’s body. That’s natural. But everything that happens between a boy and a girl must be consensual.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That both the boy and girl agree to it.”

“But they did agree.”

“I didn’t. And either did your teacher.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I like it so much.”

“Why do you like it?”

Peter’s eyes dropped. “I don’t know.”

Sandra tugged his hands. He looked up.

“Peter, I have a teenage daughter. I know what that answer means. You know but don’t want to tell me. Tell me why you like looking up women’s dresses.”

“It makes me feel good.”

“How?”

Peter pulled his hands free and pointed at his crotch. “Here.”

“Oh, so it excites you.”

“Huh?”

“Your penis gets hard, right?”

Peter nodded.

“That means you’re excited. But you don’t get pleasure from it.”