By way of introduction:
This story is a work of fiction. As you read, if you read, please don't take offense at anything regarding teachers or anything that might allude to children in or with disadvantaged circumstances. There is nothing political in here either. Though some readers might want to demur, I've placed it in the "Loving Wives" genre for good reason, and God bless you, if you get to the end, you might see why.
No witches are burned here. There are no private detectives, no hidden cameras or microphones, no guys named Guido, no Karate experts, no Navy SEALS, and there will be no unnecessary blood spilled. This is just the story of a boy who, thanks to some interesting and beautiful women, manages to grow up. I hope you enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
carvohi
And now...
"Once Upon a Time."
How many people I wonder have awakened quite like I did once; frightened out of their wits, wondering where they were, and how they got there, and having no idea what to do? All I can say is that it is very disquieting, especially if they're a child, and they know something terrible has happened. I know this, because it happened to me. My name is Timothy McLeish, and this is my story
I guess things started to come together when I was around eight years old. I'm much older now. I've been told I was an only child, but I've never been convinced of that. I remember my mom and dad and I were on some highway. There was an accident. I remember a loud crashing, and a lot of noise. Someone was crying and it wasn't my mom. I knew that because I remember my mom was all pushed forward up against the windshield, and the windshield was all bloody.
I remember how bad I felt. They told me later the accident was in Tennessee. They said we lived in Tennessee. I remember I didn't even know where Tennessee was. Someone said my mom was a school teacher and my dad was a writer, but they said he'd never written anything. At least that's what they said. I can't remember who said it.
I couldn't remember much about anything for a long time. I know I spent a lot of time in different hospitals. I'd been pretty badly hurt. I still have a few problems. One leg is shorter than the other, and sometimes, even now, I have problems trying to concentrate when I need to write something or think about something, or make a decision.
Somewhere this woman showed up. She told me she was my mom's sister. The woman said my mom was Madeline, and she was my Aunt Katherine. She used to come and see me, but not a lot.
When I was around twelve, I think I was twelve, she took me out of the place where I was and took me to her home. She was married to a car salesman, and they had one boy whose name was Brandon. Brandon is supposed to be my cousin.
Aunt Katherine said she wanted to adopt me, but her husband, Mr. Cameron, said no. I found out later they'd taken me in as a foster child, and as long as I was a "foster" and not legally adopted they got paid money. They treated me fairly good I suppose. I never got hit or anything. I almost never got my own clothes, except underwear and socks. Most of my clothes were Brandon's stuff he'd outgrown or wore out.
We all lived in a big house, a two story they called it. They had four bedrooms upstairs; one was for my aunt and Mr. Cameron, one was for Brandon, one was a guest room, and one was Mr. Cameron's special office. They fixed up a place in the cellar for me. It was a little damp sometimes, and pretty cold in the winter, but I had a bed and a bureau. I also had a rack where I could hang Brandon's old clothes.
There was a woman who came to visit once in a while. She said she came to see how I was doing. She said she was from the government. She would ask my aunt a lot of questions, smile and leave. She never said anything to me. She never asked me any questions. I wouldn't have known what to say anyway.
When my aunt and uncle took me in I got enrolled in middle school. I remember they said I was supposed to be in the ninth grade, but everyone decided I'd be better off if they held me back a year. They said it was because of my accident. I didn't understand any of that.
When I started school, they put me in "special classes". There weren't as many kids in those classes, and I was supposed to get a lot of extra help with my reading. Mostly though, the teachers just talked to each other about stuff. I do remember that.
What I didn't like was what some of the teachers said when they didn't think any of us kids were listening. Sometimes in the hallways as we walked to class I overheard some teachers say things like, "Oh, he's one of the dummies", or "he's one of the gold fish." I knew what that meant; I was told gold fish are so stupid they can't remember anything so when they swim around in a bowl everything they see is like something new no matter how many times they go past it. I remembered that, and I remembered which teachers said it. I especially remember the ones who laughed.
I was good at arithmetic, and I think that confused some of the teachers. I was supposed to be dumb at everything.
Reading and talking were problems. I could keep up with what everybody said, but whenever it was my turn to talk I was always just too slow making the words come out. Sometimes people, especially some of the teachers, got impatient with me. I knew I was slow, but they didn't have to look at each other and smirk.
My cursive wasn't any good either. Everything I wrote they said was always all squinched up. Some of the teachers got mad and said I didn't know how to write. I know I got lower grades on a lot of things because of my writing.
One thing bothered me all through middle and high school. While my cousin Brandon got an allowance, all I ever got was lunch money. Brandon even got a car when he turned sixteen. He wrecked it right away. Uncle Cameron never gave me anything. He hardly ever talked to me.
It was around the time I was in the ninth grade my life started to change, and little did I know back then, that the changes that started then would ultimately put me in an entirely different world.
By the late winter of the ninth grade I knew if I ever wanted anything other than Brandon's cast offs I'd have to find a way to get my own money. I started looking around. There weren't many opportunities for a backward slow-witted boy like me, but there was one old lady who didn't live too far away who I'd come to know and like. We were all Catholic, and we attended mass the same time she did. Uncle Cameron was always especially nice to her. I found out a little later my Uncle Cameron had a special reputation as an ass kisser. The old lady's name was Pauline Grummond.
Mrs. Grummond lived on a street people at our church called "Quality Hill"; people who weren't Catholic called it "Catholic Hill". One day after mass Mrs. Grummond asked me if I might stop by her house and help her with a couple chores. I wasn't very big, and kind of skinny, actually real skinny, but I saw my chance.
Aunt Katherine tried to talk me out of it. She told me that Mrs. Grummond was old and not very smart. Aunt Katherine said I'd probably mess up everything she asked me to do, but I remembered when I told Mrs. Grummond what Aunt Katherine said she patted my head and said she didn't think so.
The next Saturday I paid my first visit to Mrs. Grummond's house. In hindsight it was like what Eldridge Cleaver said in his book "Soul on Ice", "somewhere in the universe a gear shifted".
Mrs. Grummond met me at her door and handed me a list of chores. Mostly they were the things my aunt made me do back at her house; I had to change some sheets, make Mrs. Grummond's bed, clean her two toilets, vacuum the rugs, and scrub and wax the floors. I worked all that first day. She showed me how to make a bed properly. She explained the proper mixture for the cleansers. She even fed me lunch. That first lunch was just a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, but it was the best peanut-butter and jelly sandwich I ever had. She sat with me while I ate it and asked me all sorts of questions. She even listened to me, and she never got impatient. She asked good questions. It was like the first time I could remember when anyone was ever talking to me like it wasn't some job they had to do.
At the end of the day, she gave me $5.00. She told me to save at least 10% of it. I remember she asked me if I knew what that meant and if I knew how to figure it. I told her I knew and then I showed her. I was so proud. Mrs. Grummond told me to come back the next week.
When I got home, I didn't tell anyone how much she paid me. I told them I only got $2.00. I was stupid, but not that stupid. My aunt said I could keep it.
The next week I did some of the same chores. I made her bed for her, and cleaned her house, but that second week she started talking about the coming warm weather and her yard, her lawnmowers, her weed-whacker, and her flower beds.
This all surprised me because back at Aunt Katherine's those were things I wasn't allowed to touch. Mrs. Grummond gave me another $5.00.
Gee, after eight days I had $10.00. I was getting rich. I found an old envelope, put the money in it, and hid it under my mattress. The next two weeks went about the same, and I had $20.00!
It was the fifth week at Mrs. Grummond's when my world changed in three of the most wonderful ways. First, Mrs. Grummond opened her garage up. Inside there was an old Chrysler, and an even older Ford pick-up truck. We went to Lowes where Mrs. Grummond bought a lawn spreader and ten big bags of pelleted lime. I loaded the pick-up all by myself. The bags were heavy and it was hard, but I did it! She said next week she'd show me how to run her riding lawnmower so I could spread the lime.
On our way back she asked me what I was doing with my money. I told her I'd saved every penny. When she asked me where, I told her under my mattress. When she heard that she did something I swear was the most wonderful thing anyone had ever done for me. She took me to a bank, and we started my own bank account. Since I was under age, I asked her if she'd be my adult co-signer. She was very serious about that, and agreed in the most solemn way. By the time we got back to her house I had my own bank account, and the promise of some really responsible jobs starting the very next week. I felt like I was walking on air.
As I walked out her front door that day, I got the biggest surprise of all.
Mrs. Grummond was seeing me off when a big black Escalade pulled up in front of her house, and out of it jumped two of the most beautiful girls I'd ever seen in my whole life. I took one look at them and I lost my breath. They were wearing their school uniforms. The taller thinner girl was wearing a beige Oxford button-down shirt and khaki pants. The smaller one had on a banlon shirt, but she was wearing a khaki mini-skirt. She had beautiful legs. Both girls had what I thought were pretty nice tits. The uniforms told me they went to Saint Mary's; only the most expensive private girls' school in the county.
