Ronnie and Linda and Richard and I never went out again as a group. But soon, Richard was picking me up from junior high every day and driving me to Hart Park, about twenty miles outside of town. Hart Park was a rambling county park with a small manmade lake and lots of scrawny, heat-exposed trees. On the weekend, it was where all the kids went to cruise. During the weekdays it was quiet, with no one but an occasional park ranger in sight.
At Hart Park, Richard and I would sit in the backseat of his car and make out. We did it for hours. I now knew what people meant when they said they “got lost in someone’s arms” because that’s what happened to me. I got lost in Richard’s arms, in his kisses.
I don’t know if it was the fear of my mother beating me to death if I got pregnant or the fact that I had already been sexually abused, but I never even considered having sex with Richard. After that first night at the drive-in he never attempted to go any further with me than kissing, either. And that—the fact that we spent so much time just making out and not going any further—made me feel normal, like other girls my age. It was a way for me to turn back the clock and pretend what happened with Steve had never occurred. For me, my relationship was sweet and romantic and innocent. Though he was far too old for me, because he never tried to push me to do more than kiss, my experience with Richard helped me to trust men again.
Later that year, after I’d begged Richard to take me to the county fair for weeks, I went with some friends and saw him there with a woman and two kids. I was devastated.
On the phone the next day, he admitted he was married.
“What are you doing with me if you’re married?” I demanded. It was as if I were thirty years old and had just discovered that the man I had been seeing was married.
Richard didn’t have much to say because there wasn’t anything to say. I saw him a few more times after that, but we never went to the park again. One time, though, he came over to Pat’s house, the girl who lived next door to me, and for some reason the younger Hanson girl was there. We started playing a game where you had to go into the closet and kiss Richard if you lost (probably his idea). The young Hanson girl ended up having to go in the closet with him, and when they came out everything started to click for me. This guy likes young girls, I realized, and he’s moving on to fresh meat.
Richard didn’t really care about me, he was just using me. The thought made me sick to my stomach, just like I’d felt every time Steve molested me. After that day, I never saw him again.
chapter 21
I met Barbara Anderson through Linda Embrey and Ronnie. The story in our neighborhood was that Barbara had four sisters and they were all whores. Looking back on this, I imagine they were all sexually abused—probably at home. The rumor was that Barbara hadn’t turned into a whore yet, but everyone was just waiting for it to happen.
I liked Barbara. She had that innocent, sweet quality I’d seen in Patricia. I guess I saw my own lost innocence in both girls.
I don’t know what Barbara saw in me. Perhaps a mother figure or an older sister who would protect her in ways that her own older sisters didn’t. At any rate, even though she was two years younger than me we were good friends for a short time, and in that time she made a huge impression on me.
We were friends during the time I was seeing Richard. Sometimes when he picked me up at school I had him swing by and pick up Barbara at Friendly’s Market, the local hangout, and she came along with us to the park. She’d get out of the car while we kissed and just walk around until we were ready to go home. I always felt like she just wanted to get out of her house and into the fresh air, and since it never seemed like her parents cared where she was, she was free to do what she wanted.
Barbara and I continued to hang out after I stopped seeing Richard. I never went to her house, and she never came to mine. Instead we just hung out outside Friendly’s waiting for someone to come by with a car to take us for a ride. Ronnie would sometimes come by and take us to A&W Root Beer up on Niles Street, and on weekends he sometimes gave us a ride to the canal, where everyone tried to cool off from the heat.
Ronnie seemed like a good guy. He wasn’t seeing Linda anymore, and neither was I. I don’t remember why—she just seemed to not be around anymore. But he was always nice to me and Barbara.
One evening Ronnie came by in a friend’s car, another convertible.
“This is Lonnie,” Ronnie said, introducing his friend.
Lonnie and Ronnie—it sounded funny to us, and we laughed hysterically.
“You girls wanna go for a ride?” Ronnie asked.
We jumped at the chance. Lonnie got out of the car and motioned for me to sit next to him in the front. Instead of sitting next to Ronnie in the backseat, Barbara sat in the front next to me on the bench-style seat. I thought she probably didn’t want to give Ronnie any ideas by sitting in the backseat with him, which was okay by me.
We drove out to the country and the guys offered us some beer. I’d had sips of
