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Chapter Eleven: The Goldfish Bowl
- University of Missouri Press
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63 Chapter Eleven The Goldfish Bowl Protect your children/ Love your children. . . —Stephanie Finell March 1974 Stephanie’s progress had been steady, though it was slower than I hoped. Her speech was that of a normal ten-year-old. Again, she was popular with her classmates—now from the Frostig Center—and was invited to many birthday parties, prompting frequent visits to the toy store. I was in a hurry. I’d been in the toy store only for a few minutes to pick up presents I had already bought and I left Stephanie in the car. Where is my car? Where did the attendant park it? Ah, there. I spotted the car partially hidden behind a van at the far end of the lot. At that moment the parking attendant closed the door to the driver’s side and slinked off. I ran, not knowing why. He also ran. In the opposite direction. I opened the car door and saw Stephanie’s zipper was open, her jeans and panties pulled below her hips; and her leather belt had been thrown onto the back seat. She clutched a dollar bill in her left hand. I stared, confused as to what was going on. “Stephanie! What. . .why are your pants down?” “Mommy!” Sobs drowned her voice, making it difficult for me to understand the words she blurted out. “The man called me a boy!” “The man who parked the car?” “He said he’d give me a dollar if I was a girl!” She trembled as tears rolled down her cheeks. Her hands pushed furiously at her recently acquired super-short bob. “I hate my hair, I hate it. See!” She pointed her finger at me. “The man thought I’m a boy!” 64 Broken Butterfly I screamed at attendant. “Hey, you!” The man turned and looked at me, an alarmed smirk smeared across his face. His thin mustache quivered, his mouth twitched. “You!” I repeated, “Yes, I mean you. Come over here!” He skulked toward me. His wire-rimmed glasses slid down his nose, he held his head slightly forward and cocked to the left, his right arm raised to shoulder height, ready to fend off an imaginary blow. “Yes? Ma’am?” he lisped, his voice a thin falsetto. “Is this the man, Stephanie?” “Yes, Mommy.” Stephanie took one quick look, then hid her head in the crook of her arm. “What did you do to my daughter?” “Me? No do noathing. Honor, me no do none.” He stood like a trapped animal. “I asked you, What did you do? What kind of a pervert are you?” Now why did I say that? I wanted to choke him. Instead I pushed the dollar into his face. “And this?” “Honest! Me ’ave wife, me children. You believe. He must ’a’ found the dollar in street. Si, in street. He must ’a’ found—I no do—” I threw the dollar at the attendant, slid behind the wheel, turned the ignition , and gunned the motor. As I shot past him, brushing his clothes, I thought, Stupid man, calling Stephanie “he.” In the rearview mirror, I saw him give me the finger. My tires squealed onto Camden Drive, I crossed Santa Monica Boulevard on orange turning red, then came to a screeching halt at the stop sign at Elevado , nearly hitting a teenager on a bicycle. The sudden stop made Stephanie bang her head on the windshield. In my rage I’d forgotten to put on her seat belt. Her pants were still down. I took a deep breath. Stephanie had curled into a small knot. She huddled against the door, pressing her head against the window. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. I reached over to pull up her pants, buckled her in, hugged her, kissed her. “Sweetheart, don’t cry. I didn’t hit the kid.” “No. But Mommy, the man’s a liar. He said I found the dollar in the street. I wasn’t even in the street.” “Honey, I believe you. Don’t cry. Please. Things will be all right. I’ll drive nice and slow, and when we get home, we’ll have a little cake and milk. A Kaffeeklatch . We’ll forget that horrible man.” Her voice was a whisper. “Okay, Mommy.” I dialed Marvin’s office. “Marv? No, no. No one is hurt—” Then I told him what had happened. A young police officer arrived to take the report. He got there before Marvin. I found...