Chapter 9

I slept in until nine, when the sent of Mom cooking breakfast drew me from my warm bed. I woke up by myself in bed, but had a vague memory of one of the girls joining me for part of the night, although I wasn't certain which one it had been. Probably Holly, for all her brash assertiveness, she seems to need the most reassurance. Beth is more secure in herself, despite or perhaps because of being more tranquil and serene.

Mom had made a huge batch of goulash, or hash, in the largest cast skillet, the one which is twenty inches in diameter and four and a half inches deep. She must have had dad help her lift it to the range top, I could barely lift it, and I lift weights! She had it filled with diced potatoes, shredded beef, garlic cloves, green peas, onions, paprika and pepper, and just to prove she was traditional in her domesticity, she had added the dumplings and covered it to turn them into soft biscuits and served the portions with a dollop of heavy cream. Sort of like sour cream but not sour.

Of course, there was way too much for us to eat, so the rest went toward leftovers. I hugged everyone goodbye, and set off for the library. I got to town early, and went to see if my favorite girlfriend was around. She was, and was able to get away from her mom, who was in a cleaning mode, by invoking the boyfriend card. Her mom shooed us both out the door, giving Tiff an hour to visit before she had to come back and help scrub and organize, or I don't know what, to assist in the process.

We scooted, and sat in the park, parked on a pair of swings, gently swaying back and forth in a dreamy sort of way. If you have ever been in love in a park on some swings, you know just what I mean. If you have not, you don't know what you are missing, and no words of mine will be able to convey it to you.

I asked her if she knew that I was a rescuer, and she said of course, I had rescued her, and probably the entire school, from what she could see. I asked her if she trusted me to mostly act on the behalf of others, unselfishly, and she allowed that she could see that about me. I explained that I wanted to rescue a young woman from ruin, but I would let her crash and burn if my girlfriend was uncomfortable with what I intended to do as my rescue plan.

Tiff looked serious, and asked me "This is a bit more than breaking a compact mirror, isn't it?"

"I am afraid so, I need to fulfill this woman's fantasy in a way that the reality wipes out the fantasy for all time." And I explained how it was with Miss Holly and her teenage lusts. Tiff was troubled, but she could see how my plan would work, and the negative consequences which were sure to occur if Miss Holly continued on her reckless way. What I intended was sort of like an inoculation, which would protect against the fever. She didn't want me to be the one to do it, but could see that I was the only one who could. Do it, that is. We swung and stared at the sky, and then it was time for her to go home.

I didn't press her for an answer, but held her hand and swung her arm back and forth as we walked, smiling into each others eyes. She told me to see how it was on Monday, and then we would decide. She kissed me. She kissed me! Wow. I floated off to the library which was open by now.

There was no data on child beating tools. This would make a better psychological study based on field interviews than a research paper. I could find about what some people were beat with in autobiographies, but nothing that informed across the generations. It just wasn't something that was bragged about for some reason.I gave up, and shifted the focus of my paper to investigate the various implements used for punishment, and the historical attitudes about whipping the shit out of your kids.

"Spare the rod, and spoil the child" was the most common and well recognized of these, and the whole "chattel" concept of considering your wife and children as part of your farm stock, and owned by you, was just the way it was back then. I remembered that song, "The Wagoner's lad".

I spent a good three hours getting quotes filled out on three and a half by five cards, with sources and footnotes, finding most of the good stuff surprisingly in the Farmer's Almanac. Anything from two hundred years ago or earlier was filled with the attitude I was researching, and it was mostly 'reform' stuff. That thing about not beating your wife with a rod thicker than your thumb was reform! Like, don't be cruel to your wife, only beat her with a rod that is small, and not too thick.

I don't know, it seems boys were men with a man's responsibilities at the age of 14 or so, and now men are children right up into their thirties, so perhaps we are all spoiled children, but I really don't know. Was it getting beat which made them more responsible? It seems home schooled and Japanese children are more responsible, and while the home schooled might be being beaten, the Japanese are not very big on beating, so that idea doesn't pan out.

I got the cards I needed and my new outline fleshed out, and then put my research away in my backpack, and headed off for home. The bare trees reached their scrawny arms up to worship the pouting moon, cold and indifferent to their pleas. Where had this sudden morbid mood come from? I stopped my peddling, and paused, settling into the Universe and opening my senses toward the balance.

Finally I spotted her, more by absence than presence, a tiny huddled black form under a tree down by the edge of the wetlands off the bike trail. I say wetlands, but just thirty years ago it would have rightly been known as a swamp. It, and the barren trees and partial moon suited the mood of the fey little Goth baby,

She was of an age of my sisters, or perhaps a few years older, and as I squatted down near her she turned her mascara smeared face toward me, looking like nothing less than a white-faced raccoon. Dressed all in black, she was asking to be hit by a car as she crossed the road, and she sniffled and glared like a wild animal, but didn't wipe at her eyes one little bit.

I just sat there, waiting her out without saying a word, trying to provide companionship by my solid presence, near enough to touch if we both reached out. It is hard to feel lonely and abandoned when someone is sitting there companionably and supportively, so I was interfering with her pity party, turning her loss and desolation to anger at me for being supportive.

Good! Anger, even misdirected anger, was a healthier emotion than self-pity and grief. I let her build up a good head of pissed, and then did a little spiritual aikido just before she attacked me or ran off in a rage.

"Who bought you your cape?" I asked.

""Hu- Wha..." she sputtered incoherently at the seeming non-sequitur.

"Where did you get the money to buy the mascara and black hair dye?" I explained gently.

"F- from my M-Mom. But she doesn't understand me, she hates me!" she exploded, directing her disappointment finally where she thought it actually belonged, and leaving me as the companion I was, neither feared nor hated. I had done it, and we were engaged in a dialogue.

"Does she know where you are right now?" I said rhetorically. "Do you think she is worried, or do you think she is unaware that you are missing?" I stated.

"N-no, she doesn't know where I am, and I am sure she is worried, probably frantic, I bet she calls the police on me! She hates me because I am not 'normal'."

"And yet she bought you your mascara and paid to let you die your hair, even after she failed to talk you out of it. Are you sure she hates you?"

"No, I am sure she loves me." the forlorn little gothette pouted, starting to cry again. This time it was a cleansing cry, not a bitter lonely abandoned cry. I could have comforted her, but I would rather she go hug her mom instead. I gave her a moment to release the most bitter disappointment, silently, and not telling her that if her mother had embraced her gothness she would have abandoned it to find a new radical identity to test her mother's love for her with.