Leech Hoose, part three

Through no fault of her own, Leta's 15-year-old daughter Vivian found herself physically trapped between the inappropriate advances of two rough boys in the neighborhood. She and her12-year-old brother Dale were walking home after a summer afternoon at the library. It had been particularly hot and humid for several days, and everyone was feeling the strain. They always passed the large Victorian boarding house, where a handful of men and teenaged boys passed their time in trite conversation and imbibing in illegal alcohol. Vivian always followed her mother’s instructions completely when passing by: She picked up her pace, she looked straight ahead, she drew herself large like a bear and mostly held her breath. Having nothing more productive to do, one or two of the men or boys noticed—they noticed everything—and made inappropriate comments and invitations to amuse themselves at her—or anyone other passer-by’s—expense. As she was most frequently seen with a handful of books, they referred to Vivian as “teacher,” drawing great pleasure by mocking her.

Mostly, things never went farther than a few catcalls, which she could easily ignore. Once or twice during the summer months, one of the boys would disengage himself from the collective and run to the edge of the yard. When this occurred, Vivian would walk even faster, and like well-trained dogs, none would follow her beyond the property line, out of the protection of the “band of ruffians,” as her mother Leta referred to the collection of males.

This afternoon, however, two of the boys became brazen, and between them, they had trapped Vivian, holding her arms to prevent her flight and after several inappropriate lecherous comments and sneers, were about to force their chapped and peeling lips to hers.

Vivian winced in terror, closed her eyes and started to shake her head. Actually, she was shaking her entire body in order to free herself from the iron grip of the boys.

“Don’t struggle, teacher,” one of the boys cackled. “I guarantees you’ll like it.”

Vivian could not recall if she heard the voice before or after the loud thwacking sound, but she did feel a physical jolt, and the boy with the python-like grip suddenly released her and started howling.

“I don’t think so,” a firm female voice declared.

“Mother?” Vivian gasped.

As she opened her eyes, she saw her mother strike the second boy with a broom. Leta held the bristle end and with great precision and strength struck the boy across the side of his face.

He immediately pulled away from her to protect himself, and that was her mother’s intent. Certainly, Leta would have liked to hurt the crude and vicious boys, but she would settle for freeing her daughter and leaving them with the understanding that assaulting either of her children or herself would be avenged with forceful bodily harm.

The boys were still reeling from the initial blows and slightly off-balance, when one after the other, she poked them in the stomach with the broom handle.

“Now, get out of here,” Leta ordered firmly.

One of the boys appeared to test her orders and she quickly jabbed the broom handle in his direction, forcing him to jump back.

“Yeah, sure, lady,” he said. “Whatevah ya want.”

Leta was arching her frame and glaring at Vivian’s antagonists. Brandishing the broom fiercely, she drove the two boys back to their own yard. They stepped backwards at first, but then turned and moved more quickly.

Without a word, Vivian picked up her books. As she and her mother started walking the rest of the way home, she could see Dale two houses down, watching. He had obviously taken advantage of the boys’ disinterest in him and run home.

“Everything all right?” he asked as they approached. He was bouncing from one foot to the other.

“Everything is fine, darling,” Leta said. She was still tense, but relaxing.

“Mother, I—“ Vivian started.

“—No need to explain,” Leta said.

To be continued.

Leech Hoose, part two

While Leta's 15-year-old daughter Vivian knew that she was not to stop and talk to boys on the street, she had very few defenses when an incorrigible youth, in this case two, obstructed her. She had tried to ignore them; she walked briskly; she held her books tightly against her bosom. But there she was, standing on the sidewalk in front of the house where men and boys loafed day and night, being accosted by two teenaged boys who refused to let her pass. In fact, one of them just knocked the books out of her hands.

“Don’t she look nicer now?” her attacker asked.

The other was too mesmerized by her heaving breasts to respond, so his friend smacked him in the back of his head.

“Hey!”

“What?” the other howled, rubbing his head.

“Get yer mind out of the gutter!” he ordered. “Teacher is refined. She don’t appreciate your filthy mind.”

“I can’t help it,” the other whined. “Just look at ‘em. I’d love ta—“

“Watch your mouth!” the first snapped and raised his hand again.

“Okay, okay,” the other agreed, cowering slightly.

Although their exchange was brief, Vivian had taken the opportunity to start edging away from the boys. She hated to leave the books behind, but her understanding of the danger presented toward her person superseded her dedication to the books. Before she got to where she could actually start running, however, the first boy grabbed her arm.

“Hold on, teacher,” he said. “Nobody dismissed you.”

He gripped her hard.

“Please,” she requested, “just let me go.”

Her mother had told her never to cry when she was in a confrontation. Crying was weakness. Crying showed inferiority. Crying indicated defeat. The only time a woman used crying was strategically, to win an argument. So instead of crying, Vivian arched her back and drew herself even taller.

Although she was naturally a gentle person, she assessed the strength of her attacker by his grip. His bare arms were thin as sticks, all bone and sinew, but when she flexed slightly, his grip grew tighter. He was stronger than she. Her only alternative was to kick him. She had hard shoes. A swift strike to his shin should smart enough that he released her. But she would only have one opportunity. He would have to be in the right position.

“Ain’t she got purty arms,” her assailant said, raising the arm he held so tightly and running the other along it. “Her skin is soft as rabbit fur,” he told his confederate.

His hand was rough and calloused. She imagined a snake running up and down her arm, and her hair stood on end.

When the other youth reached for her free arm, she jerked it away, inadvertently pushing herself into the first.

“Oh no?” the second boy smirked. “Then hows about a little kissy-poo.” He puckered his lips and pushed his face toward hers. She turned ahead away in disgust, only to find that the boy who held his arm had assumed the same expression.

To be continued.

Leech Hoose, part one

Leta's marriage to husband number our—Leech Hoose—was unstable from the start. They had been seeing one another for several months, although surreptitiously since Leta was still married to Ora Freeman when they met. All of their meetings had been at a speakeasy and at night. Leech was a bulky sort of person who claimed he liked good home cooking and fresh whiskey. He always dressed nicely and shared that he drove a delivery truck. How he could rise so early in the morning after drinking so much whiskey the previous evening baffled Leta, but apparently he managed. If he was not sitting at the bar when she arrived on her evenings to relax, then he would arrive soon after, looking rested and refreshed. She liked how he always wore a tie.

What neither recognized is that they were little more than drinking buddies. While Leta’s sexual nature drew men to her, including Leech, his own sexual desires were minimal. He was gentlemanly; he always pulled her chair out for her to sit, or rose when she arrived. He ordered for her. He paid for her drinks. He walked her to the trolley when it was time for her to go home. However, he never made any sexual or even romantic advances. He never tried to kiss her. He never pressed his body near to her. He rarely looked at her breasts, not that she had large breasts, but she still she made sure that they were well displayed. In some ways, he reminded her of her first husband Ralph.

His lack of attention in this way saddened her, but after a couple of drinks, she became more relaxed and simply enjoyed his company. He was far better company than Ora had ever been.

Leta could not recall which of them even suggested marriage. She was already separated from Ora, and their divorce was in process. She and her children Vivian (age 15) and Dale (age 12) were floundering economically, relying on handouts from friends and family to maintain even a simple lifestyle. They were living in a dingy one-room attic apartment in a questionable neighborhood. While she took in some sewing work, she barely made enough to pay their meager rent. In her divorce filing, she petitioned for alimony, but the legal proceedings were dragging on. Ora kept stalling.

Having children was becoming burdensome. They had so many needs, both physical and emotional. Vivian was becoming a beautiful young woman, and although quiet and introspective, she drew the interest of boys and men in their neighborhood. One very hot August afternoon, as she was walking home from the library with Dale, Vivian attracted the unwanted attention of two older boys in the neighborhood.

She was holding her books protectively across her chest, as she usually did when walking. She also kept a brisk pace, while Dale flitted around her, his body following his curious and restless eyes. The boys were loitering in front of a large Victorian home that Leta called a “flop house,” because there were always a handful of individuals, mostly men, loafing on rusty metal chairs on the oversized porch or on the steps in their dirty undershirts, obviously imbibing on some homemade beer in brown bottles. Leta had taught her daughter to walk briskly past, looking straight ahead and ignore anything any of the men said to her. The children still interested them, however, and they referred to Dale as “pipsqueak” because of his small frame and Vivian as “teacher” because she wore glasses and was always holding books.

The house was four down the street from their own and one past the corner, which the children turned on their route. There was a large elm tree near the edge of the yard. Right after they turned the corner, the two boys appeared from behind the tree and stopped them. They were both smoking cigarettes, rail thin and covered in grime.

“Howdy, teacher,” one said. They were both about the same age, seventeen or eighteen at most. One had a few freckles, the other one was slightly darker skinned, although it was hard to distinguish between them. Both wore hats that shaded their dark eyes.

“Where you headed off to this fine afternoon?” the other one inquired.

Vivian was moving determinedly forward until the boys blocked her.

“Whatcha reading?” one asked, reaching for the books so carefully placed and held so tightly.

Vivian quickly stepped back.

“No,” she gasped.

“You wanna read to us?” the other boy inquired, sliding closer to her.

“I’m sure that if you wanted to read, you could go to the library for your own books,” she suggested.

“You hear that, bud?” one boy laughed. “She wants us to go to the li-berry.”

The other moved in.

“Aw, teacher, they won’t let us into the li-berry on account of we’re too smart.”

The other started to guffaw.

“Yeah, too smart,” he choked between his bellows. ”Good one, bud.”

“All you need is a card,” Vivian continued, “and they let you check out the books you want. Of course, you have to return them. You’re just borrowing them.”

This sent the laughing boy into deeper paroxysms of laughter.

“Oh yeah, borrowin’! Hear that, bud? Teacher says we can borrow stuff.”

Vivian pulled her books tighter to her.

The boy stopped laughing.

“We borrows everything, teacher. We just don’t never take it back!”

Vivian thought she had opportunity and stepped forward, but the other boy was standing on her other side. He slammed his arm on the top of her stack of books, flipping them out of her hands and onto the ground.

Vivian was breathing heavily and holding back tears.

“Now, watcha gonna do, teacher?” he asked, his dirty and scarred face close to hers, his breath reeking of rotten moonshine and stale cigarettes. She winced and drew back.

To be continued.