The next day was Saturday and the pattern was set. My mother did the housework while I helped. My father liked everything spotless.
“Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” he used to quote, although I found out later that it wasn’t even in the Bible at all. He had many other sayings he quoted from the Bible that probably weren’t really in there at all, but a six-year-old couldn’t know that.
My father was a great churchgoer. We dressed in our finest and went to Sunday school and church on Sunday mornings and Sunday nights. He was a deacon in the church and was well respected by everyone. I understood that. He was a different man on Sundays at church than he was at home through the week.
He always acted so proud of his daughter and his wife. “My reasons for living,” he’d say, smiling fondly at us both and ruffling my hair with the same hand he’d used to twist my arm before we’d left the house. “God has blessed me with a fine family and I give thanks for them every day.”
Mom would look down at her shoes and smile shyly. We always sat in the second pew from the front, with me in the middle. I was never allowed to look at the hymnals or write on anything or even fall asleep.
Many Sundays my father was asked to pray. He could bring tears to the eyes of the congregation with his long, eloquent prayers. They would rush to him afterward, wring his hand and tell him how much they’d enjoyed his prayers.
“You must be so proud of your father,” many a teary-eyed matron would say to me. I’d just nod my head, trying not to grimace from the pain of his big hand squeezing mine.
Sunday afternoons were spent in more cooking and cleaning while he watched the ball games, and then back to church that night. Nobody ever even suspected that he was a different man at home than he was when we entered the doors of the church.
My father was the local postmaster and my mother was secretary to the mayor of our small town, so we were well known to everybody. Our house was in a good neighborhood, and my father drove a good car. I never knew if it was because I was a girl and he’d wanted a boy, that my father mistreated me. He didn’t like my mother very much, either. He continually told her how stupid and ugly she was, and how, if it wasn’t for him, she wouldn’t be working in the mayor’s office.
“Earl would fire you in a minute if it wasn’t for me,” he would snarl, making my mother cringe.
Earl Hunter had been mayor of our small town for as long as I could remember. Mr. Hunter and my father were good friends. We all went to the same church, and Mr. Hunter was also a deacon. He and his wife, Emmylou, had three boys. They never visited our home, but we all attended church functions together. The Hunter boys were rough and rowdy and Mrs. Hunter had no control over them whatsoever. When they got out of hand, my father would laugh uproariously and tell my mother and me that they were just boys being boys.
But I had to sit quietly between my parents or stand patiently by their sides as my father talked endlessly to other people. If I fell asleep or moved, he’d move toward me and his hand would settle heavily on my shoulder, and I’d know that I was in for it when we got home.
My only outlet for keeping my sanity was school. I liked school. There, I learned to read and do math and color, and I learned history. There was no way that my father could keep me from learning. Any attempt to intimidate the school system would only have made him look foolish, and he was always very careful not to look foolish or mean in front of anyone but his own family.
When my teachers gave me homework, I always sneaked it into the house and hid it in my room. If my father caught me, he’d look at anything I’d written or colored and make fun of it.
“Looks like hen scratching to me,” he’d say, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “I can’t believe my good tax money is going to a school that can’t teach better than this. ‘Course, they don’t have much to work with, do they?”
“No, sir,” I’d mumble, reaching for my paper, but he’d laugh and tear it to bits and drop it in the wastebasket.
“When you do something worth keeping, I’ll let you know.”
When I was twelve, the real nightmare began. At first, he just began to hug me more.
“You’re growing up, Cathy,” he’d say, his arms tight around me, his stale breath hot on my neck. “Not very pretty, but a good body, for sure. Yessir, a good body. We’ll need to do something about that. Can’t have all the boys gawking at you.”
So he instructed my mother to buy me some long skirts and loose blouses. My hair was pulled back and braided. Of course, no makeup was allowed. I felt humiliated when I went to school and the kids laughed at me. I tried to ignore them and bury my head in books. Life became almost unbearable for me, but I didn’t know what to do.
Coming home one afternoon, I cringed when I saw Dad’s car in the driveway. I wanted to turn and run, but I thought he might’ve seen me out the window. I was right. When I was at the edge of the porch, the front door opened and he stood there with a beer in his hand, a leer on his red, sweaty face.
“Hi, Cathy,” he said. “Your mama called and she’s going to a meeting with the mayor tonight, so it’s going to be just you and me for supper. Come on in and let’s see what we can rustle up.”
I hung back, more scared than usual. He had a funny look on his face and he never fixed supper for me.
“Why don’t you go to your room and put on something more comfortable and I’ll heat up some pizza from the freezer? I think your mama left some salad, too. Sounds good, huh?” His big hand squeezed my behind as I rushed past him.
Trembling, I went into my room and turned to lock my door. Terror gripped me as I realized that the lock had been removed. Standing in the middle of the room, I felt like a trapped animal. I looked wildly around, but I knew there was no place to hide.
“You ought to hurry up, Cathy. The pizza will be done in a few minutes. You know how fast it cooks,” he called from behind me, where he was standing in the open doorway, watching me. There was a hint of a threat in his voice.
“I think I’ll just eat in this.” I kept my back turned to him and shook my long, shapeless skirt with my hand. “It needs to be washed, anyway.”
“Nonsense,” he said heartily. “You can’t be comfortable in those things.”
Suddenly, his hands came around my waist and lifted up under my loose blouse and covered my breasts. “What the hell you doing wearing that stupid thing?” he growled as his rough, hot hands encountered my training bra.
I struggled to pull away, but he only laughed and pulled me back hard against him. I felt totally humiliated as I felt his hard penis pressing against me. I struggled frantically, forcing myself not to scream. Even in my fright, I knew he’d only punish me more if I cried out.
“What are you doing?” he growled, releasing me for a moment and then turning me around to face him. “You don’t think I’m going to hurt you, do you?”
Numbly, I shook my head.
“Come on, Cathy, I’m your father. I only want the best for you. This is something every father teaches his daughter if he loves her. Someday, you’ll want to get married, and how will you know how to do that if your old man doesn’t teach you? God gave you to me to teach. The Bible says that you belong to me until you’re married, and until that time, I’m to teach you what you need to know. You understand?”
I stopped struggling and stared at him. Was he telling the truth? Was it all right for him to put his hands on me like this? Up until now, I hadn’t believed it. I’d heard the other kids at school sniggering about sex, but I didn’t know much about it at all.
“Come on,” he said, beginning to unbutton my blouse. “Let your old man show you what it’s going to be like to be married. It’s really very nice and you’re going to enjoy it.” His voice was soothing and his hands were trembling as he removed my blouse, and