UNCONDITIONED CHAPTER 23

The Screwdriver

I’d begged to stay home, after all I was fourteen, but my parents didn’t trust me to be alone in the house for a whole day. They dragged me to a wedding of an older cousin I barely knew. Uncle George, my mother’s older brother, noticed me hanging back, bored, not participating in any of the overzealous reunion squealing. He offered to buy me a screwdriver. Thinking that maybe this wedding would be tolerable if I could have my first real drink, I jumped at his offer.

George led me to a large table, told me to sit down, and handed me the drink. Although the flavor of the vodka was subtle—more like a sensation—it had an unfamiliar kick to it. He blabbed on about nothing while I drank my screwdriver quickly so I could get away from his Old Spice miasma. I never liked him, not just because of his unwelcome fondling throughout my childhood, but also because he never said anything remotely interesting. He was not the sharpest tool in the shed.

At seventy-five pounds, by the time the glass is drained, I’m trashed—the room tilts, and I’m even less attached to my body than usual. George jumps up to get me another screwdriver. He places it too close to my chest. He moves his chair against mine, leans against my shoulder and puts his hand on my knee. His fingers slide under the hem of my skirt. He reaches up and presses them into my inner thigh at the edge of the crotch of my white cotton underpants, and squeezes my leg hard. He whispers in my ear with his wet lips and hot breath, “Here, drink this up and afterwards you can make love to me.”

I couldn’t move as fast as I wanted to get away from him—my limbs were heavy, untethered from my brain, and the floor buckled as I staggered to the ladies’ room. As a child, I’d tolerated this creep’s bedtime fondling because I’d had no choice, but now I was old enough to get away because I understood how sick he was. The thought of any physical interaction with him made me nauseous. Did he think that I enjoyed his “Happy New Year” gropings? I was naive and inexperienced, but knew that a fifty-something-year-old man getting a fourteen-year-old girl drunk so he could rape her is not making love. The most disturbing part of this was I had no one to turn to for protection.