That’s not what he’s here for.
My dad doesn’t care if his friend tries to molest me every week. My dad doesn’t care that his friend would rape me, if he had half the chance. I’ve had to grow up super-fast since Dad came home. This is all so wrong, but I don’t know how to stop it. I could tell a teacher, but then what would happen? I’d probably be taken away and put into care. It’s happened to two kids from our class this year alone, and one of them still comes to school, and she’s so sad now. The other one went away. I don’t want to leave my friends and everything I know.
My dad lets it happen because his friend lets him off some of his gambling debts if he gets to help me with my homework.
The dresser moves as the door pushes open. My heart is beating too fast. So far, I’ve managed to stop from this going too far. I’ve managed to cajole and threaten and plead until this dirty piece of shit leaves me alone, but I know one day my luck will run out.
He’s not the first, either. Another friend of Dad’s a couple years back used to come and sit and talk to me and stroke my thigh. One day he kissed me. It was so fucking odd. He put his stinky lips on mine and just … breathed. I pushed him hard, and he had the decency to look ashamed. He apologized and left, and he never came back. I still feel the shame of the many times he sat next to me stroking my thigh through my jeans.
I know what that fucker did when he got home. Now, I have to deal with this other rat bastard.
Today might just be the day this latest perv tries to push his luck, judging from the hungry expression on Mr. Yahntov’s bloated face as he shoves his way into the room. “Ah there you are, boy. You struggling with your homework?”
I don’t have any books out. This man is so stupid, he can’t even come up with a convincing lie for being in my room.
He sits next to me and puts his hand on my thigh. I brush it off with a laugh, but he puts it right back. I get off the bed and walk to the window. Staring out of my prison at the wasteland beyond, I want to cry. This life is nothing but sorrow and dirt and grinding boredom.
I want to live a life like I see on the TV shows. The sort of life they live in America. Better yet, I want to go somewhere warm. It’s always so cold here for much of the year. It’s a bone-aching cold that settles deep in your soul making it so you think you’ll never feel warm again.
Thick arms come around my waist, and I freeze. Last week, he touched me at my crotch. His fat fingers brushing the denim there. Then he left. This week, I’m scared he’ll try to do more. I should hit him, but then what would happen? He might hit me back. My father might join in.
“Have you ever had anyone kiss you?” Breath brushes past my ear, and it makes me gag as the stench of sour vodka hits me.
“Don’t be this way, Bohdan. I could make you feel good. You’re a beautiful boy.”
“What the hell is going on here?”
My father’s voice at the door has Mr. Yahntov dropping his hands like I’m made of fire.
“Nothing. I’m helping the boy with his homework. You said I could.” Mr. Yahntov sounds confused. I’m confused too. I thought my father didn’t care. Did he really believe I was being helped with my homework all this time? I tried to tell him, and he brushed my concerns off. Okay, I didn’t tell him explicitly because I didn’t have the words, but he must have known what I was attempting to say. Why care now?
It all becomes apparent at my father’s next words.
“This is a terrible thing I’m seeing. You’re touching my son inappropriately.” Father crosses himself dramatically. “What would your wife say? What will the priest say? Everyone will know. This is a terrible scandal for you.”
“No, no. We were just looking at the view, right, Bohdan?” Mr. Yahntov makes a plea for my help. He must be stupid if he thinks I’m helping him.
“You must pay for this,” my father says.
Mr. Yahntov’s face hardens. “I have been paying, for weeks. You’ve been let off much debt and for what? What did I get? Nothing but this kid whining and squirming and being anything but cooperative.”
“You let me off my debts because we’re friends, and that is what friends do.” Father offers him a false, reptilian smile. “I let you help my son with his homework because I wanted you to feel useful. Important. I know how hard it has been for you since you lost your seat on the local council. You lost some of your reputation. Now, you might be about to lose a lot more.”
“Unless?” Mr. Yahntov gets with the program. “What can I do to stop that from happening?”
“I know you’ve got a pile of savings. I think giving some of them to us would go a long way to me keeping my mouth shut. I’ll put it into an account for the boy. For all this … trouble you’ve caused him. Call it reparations of sorts. If you give us half of your savings, we will consider this matter closed.”
Mr. Yahntov pales. “I can’t give you half. My wife will kill me.”
“She will kill you if she knows you like to touch young boys inappropriately and, to be honest, your wife will be the least of your worries if this gets out.”
“You piece of shit.” He stares at my father with pure hatred, then turns his beady eyes on me. “I bet you were in on this, shiyuka.” He spits the word at me. It means whore.
Bastard. As if I’d be in on anything with my father. The man disgusts me. The word still coats me with sticky shame, though.
“Now, let us go and talk about this like civilized men. In the kitchen over a vodka. The others have left.”
All planned. And I was the bait.
My loathing for my father intensifies. When Mr. Yahntov is gone, it boils up and over. There’s only so long you can simmer away before you explode. I march into the living room and scream at my father.
“You’re the most disgusting human being I’ve ever known. You hate me and you hate me because you know it is true what your perverted friends say. I am good looking, and that means I can’t be yours. I can’t be yours because you’re an ugly, fat fucking loser.” I start to laugh. “Your wife fucked someone else, and you’ve raised that kid as your own all these years. What a loser.”
The blow when it comes is so hard, I stagger back and fall. My father picks up a chair and smashes it down on my back. I bend over to try to protect my head as the blows rain down on me.
When it’s finally over, I can barely breathe. He storms out of the apartment, and I don’t move. I don’t think I’m able.
What seems like hours later, I hear a key in the lock. Shit, he’s back.
I struggle to get up, not wanting a second go-round, but hear Mother’s voice. She staggers into the room, Uncle Roman, holding her up.
He sees me and lets go of Mom, who falls to the side, the wall the only thing stopping her from hitting the floor.
“Bohdan?” He crouches down next to me, his face creased with concern. My uncle might have gone to prison, and he might have even killed a man, but he has more honor than my father holds in his little finger. “Did he do this?”
By he, he means my father.
This I can talk about. Unlike the other stuff that I just can’t find the words to say, this I can speak of. “Does it a lot, but this is the worst,” I say. My voice sounds strained.