Vicious

Today, I watched my wife, well my ex-wife, across the club. She was partying gaily with our friends. Again, my ex-friends, the group of friends my wife and I used to be part of. Now they were with her, and with her new husband. The asshole.

I miss her. I miss the life that I had, waking up with the woman I loved, having good friends that I could count on, being a part of something. I'd never really had much of that as a kid. My mother died when I was five and my dad hit the road. He was a bum, a real bum, a hobo. Not a "poor homeless guy." He chose his life and actually loved it. He was a hard, gnarly man who rarely bathed, wore whatever rags he could find until they were no longer fit even to be rags. He reveled in begging, handing sob stories to the suckers as they handed him fives and tens and the rare but occasional twenty. He'd stand on the island at a busy intersection, holding his sign, proclaiming him a veteran (he wasn't), crippled (only mentally), or jobless and trying to feed his family. Well, he was jobless and did feed me (more or less regularly).

Yes, he had taken me with him. Apparently, a young child holding your sad story sign is more effective than in the hands of a raggedy-ass filthy man. He taught me a lot. By the time I was six, I could pan-handle with the best of them and knew the easiest marks immediately. I also was light fingered, not just in the stores while the cashiers were busy watching my father, but in crowds where purses were being jostled and a light touch wasn't noticed. I probably provided 75% of my "family's" funds. The family being my dad, myself, and whatever skank my father could convince to screw him at the time. Surprisingly, his women were even filthier than he was, in every way. "Oh, well," he'd say as he followed a particularly stinky paramour into her tent, "any old port in a storm!"

I was ten when that life ended. I was no longer an innocent looking little urchin, but a hard looking punk who looked at least 5 years older than I was. Now sharp eyes watched me in stores and in crowds, and I was caught with my hand in a woman's purse. A cop's wife, no less. Her husband nabbed me and arrested me on the spot.

My father melted into the crowd. He'd been arrested before, and I always waited for him. One time, the longest time, I had to wait six months before he was released. But that was me. My father didn't wait. I guess he realized that I wouldn't be producing the income I had when I was younger. I never saw my father again.

It was in jail that the social worker discovered that I had never been schooled. I was supposed to start kindergarten when my mother died, but my father and I hit the road before that started, so I had never set foot in a classroom. I couldn't read, had only a slight grasp of arithmetic that one develops when handling money, and absolutely no idea of any other school subject. My education had been entirely different.

It didn't take long for the other kids in jail to realize I was a "dummy". They left me alone once they found out that one of the things, I'd learned on the road was how to fight dirty and to be so vicious it wasn't worth going after me again. When I spit out the tip of one aggressor's nose the message got through to everyone.

But it had the effect of isolating me. Since I'd never been around other children before, I had no clue as to how to act with them. With adults on the tramp, I'd always had to be wary and defensive and had built up an attitude that put a wall around me that discouraged any friendly kids from approaching me.

The social worker assigned to my case, Ms. Kittledge, was horrified at my background. Sounds bad but was lucky for me. Miss Kitty, as those who liked her called her, convinced a judge that I wasn't at fault for the emotional and physical abuse that made up my childhood; that I had never had the opportunity to learn right from wrong. In short, I shouldn't be punished for doing what my father had taught me.

So, in the eyes of the law, I wasn't punished. I was released into foster care, where my luck seemed to run out. I'll spare you the story of abuse that foster kids are often subjected to -- I dealt with it as my background had taught me, viciously. My first foster parents will bear marks on their faces for the rest of their lives, and I was back in jail.

Miss Kitty saved me again. She, for some reason unknown to me to this day, had faith in me. She didn't believe the story the foster parents slung about the feral child that attacked them without reason. She dug into their history and talked to previous foster kids and was able to piece together a horror story that she said made my upbringing look wholesome. Once again, she was able to convince the judge that I didn't' belong in prison.

In the end, she took me home. She fostered me, eventually adopting me. And she loved me. Something I had never had before. She was gentle, gentle with me like a horse whisperer with a wild colt. She didn't react when I lashed out in the confusion and anger that at the time made up my whole being. She taught me to trust, and to love.

Miss Kitty's family had left her a trust fund which made her well off. She had become a social worker to give back, not because she needed the income. Now, she left her job and home schooled me, fearing that I would react to teasing in a negative way (she was a smart woman). In a surprisingly short time, she had me reading at an eighth-grade level and had pushed me into college level reading within a year. When I thirteen, she had my IQ tested by the shrink that Child Welfare insisted I see. My IQ topped 160. To everyone's surprise I was a genius. At least on paper. Through my reading and Miss Kitty's lessons I was rapidly mastering math through Geometry and learning civics, history and elementary sciences, through Biology. But with social skills, I was still lacking.

Being home schooled I was again not around other kids. Miss Kitty tried to arrange play dates with children of friends and colleagues, but my protective walls, built over 5 years on the road, baffled other kids. Also, there were a couple of confrontations that didn't end well. I was like a wolf in a flock of sheep. After those incidents, Miss Kitty was hard pressed to find kids for me to "play" with.

She countered by having me take music and dance lessons, figuring a more defined environment would ease the social pressures on me. It did. I learned to play the guitar and piano, as well as how to dance. I would do everything from waltz to jitterbug, as well as the current dance trend, by the time I was 18. But the dance master reported to Miss Kitty that I had done it without speaking a word to my partners beyond the "Would you like to dance?" before, and the "thank you", after.

But at 18 I had more than caught up in my studies. Junior year I was sent to a Catholic high school and end up mainly with AP classes. I could have done more extracurriculars, beyond the chess club, wrestling and boxing. Miss Kitty insisted I participate after school, and I found that very little social interaction was required in my chosen pursuits. And they were enough to get me into college, as I stood out in all three. Vicious has its advantages.

Miss Kitty also sent me to karate classes, starting when I was being homeschooled, hoping that the philosophy expounded by Mr. Miyagi had some truth in it, and the karate disciple would help me temper my anger and reactions. To some degree it did. My dojo stresses thinking before action, then thinking again. There were less "incidents." That why I was able to transfer to the Catholic High School.

With Miss Kitty backing me, I didn't need a scholarship for college, but I got one to the Ivy League college that Miss Kitty had attended. She was so proud of me she wept. And I wept. I was so grateful to this woman who was my whole life. She was my mother, my only friend, and my defender. Thank God. I thank God daily for bringing Miss Kitty into my life.

Unfortunately, she didn't get to see me graduate with honors, Phi Beta Kappa. She did get to see me develop some social skills. In college I learned to date. Sex is a great motivator. I still hadn't developed any real male friendships, although my roommates were cordial enough. I just didn't know how to take it further. So, I never joined a frat, never had beer drinking buddies, never had a wingman. But a fit winning boxer had to make only minimal efforts to have a social life. Some girls just love the "bad boy."

Senior year I met Dorothy Helper. Dot, she said to call her. Kipling ran through my head, "'E would dot an' carry one Till the longest day was done". I would carry this one past the longest day. She was gorgeous. And she reminded me of Miss Kitty. That alone made me open my heart to her.

Miss Kitty approved of Dot when she met her, for the first and last time, when I brought her home for the Thanksgiving vacation. They were like two peas in a pod, it seemed to me, and I beamed with love for them both. We planned to spend Christmas day with Dot's family and New Year with Miss Kitty.

Alas, it was not to be. Two days before Christmas while shopping for a present for Dot, Miss Kitty stepped off a curb downtown into the path of an idiot running the red light. My mother, my savior, was gone. Like that. In a second. I never got to say goodbye or give her the thanks she deserved.

I shut myself away from everyone, including Dot, until Miss Kitty's lawyers dragged me out of the house to attend the reading of her will. Beyond a few gifts to servants and bequests to her charities, Miss Kitty left everything to me, including a letter. The lawyer told me that Miss Kitty's instructions were for me to read the letter at home when I was alone. Miss Kitty wanted to talk to me with my undivided attention, he said.

That night I settled down at the kitchen table ready to hear Miss Kitty's final words to me.

"My dear Ryan," it began. I stopped reading as my eyes welled up with tears. I could hear her. She always called me my dear Ryan, even when she was frustrated with me, or the rare times when I angered her through my willfulness or stubbornness.

"My dear Ryan,

By now you know that I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and will soon be dead......." I sat up, shocked. I hadn't known. Then I wondered, briefly, had she stepped in front of that car on purpose? No, she wasn't the type to avoid or run from a problem. And the next line gave lie to that idea.

"Well, as you're reading this letter, the disease has finally won, and I am dead. But no regrets, except having to leave you. I had hoped to see you grow into the man I know you will be. You have been through more in your short life than anyone I know or have read about, and you have come through it all remarkably well. Always know that, although you were ten before we met, you are my son, and I am and have always been very proud of you. You have often told me that I saved you, but in truth you saved me. I was alone and lonelier than I ever knew before you came into my life. Loving you and having you in my life made me complete.

But enough of that. You know that I love you, as I know you love me. But I worry about you. While I think home schooling you was the best thing for you at the time, I've worried that you were never socialized enough with people. When you're in a crowd, you always remind me of an angry bear waiting to lash out. It keeps everyone away from you and I worry you'll be lonely.

I want you to work at making friends, for me. I know you don't like it, that it makes you uncomfortable, but do it for me. Please. I won't rest in the afterlife if you don't. Start listening to people -- help people that need help. You used to tell me about being able to ID a mark in the crowd as a child. Use that skill to ID people who need help, and then help them. Be friendly and care. Care like I cared for you. Pay it forward. Please, for me.

You are my heir. I've left almost all my wealth, as well as the family trust, to you. I know you'll use it wisely. My wealth was enough for our life and should be enough for yours. The trust I've always viewed as something to give back. I've used it to fund various charities and to help needy individuals. It's your to do with as you like, but I hope you'll follow my example. That much money can ruin a life or save many lives. I hope it doesn't ruin yours.

My desire is for you to have a full life, full of friends and love.

Do it for me. And remember, I will always love you.

Your mother, Kitty

I wept again for what I had lost. But when I finally ran out of tears, I returned to school and to Dot.

As time passed, I graduated and was hired as an engineer at a first-rate company. I lived in Kitty's house, but rarely touched her funds, except for home upkeep and repairs. My salary covered my expenses and my childhood had taught me that I could do without a lot of the things people felt were necessary for happiness. I did dip into the funds for one thing I needed, an engagement ring. Within a year of graduating, Dot and I were engaged to be married.

I began to watch people, as Miss Kitty had asked, looking for a mark. My roommate was the first. Although we rarely talked beyond pleasantries, I'd overheard enough of his phone calls to know that he was a scholarship student, and his family was dirt poor. I think he had even less of a social life than I had, since at least I dated and now had Dot.

As graduation approached, he was scrambling to find lodging beyond college and despaired that his entry level job at a pharmaceutical company would only allow him to live in a roach infested rat trap hotel. Neither he nor his family at the other end of the line could believe what rent in the city cost.

When I realized that his job was in my hometown, I thought of Miss Kitty and cautiously asked if he'd like to continue living with me. "My house has several bedrooms. Way more than I will need," I explained. "Plus, I have maid and laundry services. And a cook." I'd kept Miss Kitty's staff. They were paid out of the trust, as they were before Miss Kitty died. Her staff was as close to family as Miss Kitty had had in her life before me.

Phil, my roommate, seemed more surprised that I had talked to him than that I was offering to share my home. In the end, he was happy to take me up on my offer and became my first real friend. Not right away, not like I'd bought his friendship, but over time we finally opened up and got to know each other. A year and a half later, when I married Dot, Phil was my best man.

The marriage was a happy event for me, but a sad one as well. Dot and I were married and in love, but Phil was moving out. He was promoted and transferred to a plant on the West Coast. Being a newlywed, I probably didn't miss him as much as I might have, but it still surprised me how much he'd come to mean in such a short time. He'd taken me fishing and introduced me to waterskiing. We'd go out for a beer and sit out back and talk about life. I felt like I had wasted the year he was my roommate. I had a real friend. Score one for Miss Kitty.

Marriage was wonderful. Dot filled my life and, with Miss Kitty's final instructions in mind, I was open to the friendships that her circle of friends offered. I pitched in to help Dot's friends Mitch and Mindy move from one house to another, first painting and repairing the new location with Mitch, and then muscling the furniture and house goods, even driving the moving van. At the end of the day, it felt good to sit with Mitch while Dot and Mindy rustled up dinner. I felt like I belonged.

It was never really easy, though. I tended to be silent and awkward even with my new friends. I think that I would even stay physically on the edges of any grouping, unless Dot dragged me into the middle of the group. She did that more in the beginning of our marriage, but eventually gave in and let me stay at the edges of the group.

In the end I did join in a lot, I think. I helped coach little league (well, I did what my new friend Rob, the real coach, told me to do. He couldn't believe I'd never played baseball). I secretly sponsored the league's new uniforms out of trust funds. I pitched in with mops and bucket duty when the winter freeze caused burst pipes at Rick and Michelle's, got blisters digging out a retaining wall at Walter's and Vivian's, just for starters. Soon I was comfortably a part of a group. I help whenever they needed me, mostly physical labor. I had a group of friends. I was part of something beyond myself. Score another one for Miss Kitty.

I'd been married for over five years when something shifted in my life. I never really noticed, so I can't say exactly when, it just crept up on me. Work was going well; I was moving up and assuming more and more responsibility as the company grew and prospered. I had instructed the financial group that managed what was now my trust to invest in the company, which paid off as the company stock skyrocketed.

Dot and I were happy -- we had friends we partied and vacationed with, had no financial worries or pressing needs, and planned to have five kids. And we were happily working towards that goal.

I had identified many marks over the years, and when I could physically help by being involved, I did and as Miss Kitty foretold, was rewarded with friendships, friendships outside of Dot's and my circle. More often, though, I helped behind the scenes by dipping into the trust funds and making problems disappear. Grants and scholarships appeared at the right time and banks were suddenly able to refinance impossible loans on generous terms. I found it rewarding to see frantic people suddenly relax and enjoy life.

Dot had worked for a large financial organization right out of college but quit with my blessing and encouragement after our marriage. She managed our home and volunteered with several charitable organizations thereafter. It kept her busy but allowed her time to pamper me, she said.

We made donations to her charities every year, although in amounts in line with my earnings. I had never told her about Miss Kitty's trust. I'm not sure why; it just never seemed part of my married life. I also never told her about the marks I found per Miss Kitty's instructions, nor about the acts I took on their behalf. That just seemed private, between me and Miss Kitty.

Dot did pamper me. In a way, her pampering is what I think gave me my first uneasy feelings. For the first five years of our marriage, she went out of her way to find things that I liked, that we could do together. In that sixth year, I noticed that I was out with the boys in our group, golfing, sailing, camping, fishing, one thing after another. All similar in that Dot wasn't part of the experience. Yes, these were things I enjoyed, and I enjoyed being in the group. But I missed my wife.

Then there were outings that I wasn't included in. Maybe for good reasons, according to Dot. "Ryan, you know that you don't like opera (or ballet or art galleries or poetry readings). I don't want you snoring next to me, or having you suffer all night long just to please me." While I appreciated not having to hope the fat lady would sing soon, I missed my wife.

When I mentioned it to Dot, she'd laugh and say, "I'm right here, buddy. Just take me away to bed and I'll show you some real pampering." And our sex life would pick up for a couple of weeks, then slide back to here and there, when we were both together and not off working for the charities or me off with the boys on some adventure.

Then sex became limited, as well. Dot had developed some kind of irritant in her vagina. That limited what we could do until it cleared up. She'd give me an occasional blowjob, but she didn't offer that often. A hand job was her go to thing right now. She would apologize profusely, saying that she wanted me to be happy and she hoped this was enough for me. I loved her, didn't want her to suffer, so I told her it would do, but I hope her condition gets better soon. She assured me her doctor said it would clear up with the proper medication.