Story 3: The Hut

“Wait, wait!” Mom said. “Wait, please,” she cried.

“Sylvia is on her way here. She’s going to fix… this, fix you, and then she’ll take you to school,” my mom said. 

I looked down as my hand slid off the doorknob and I slowly turned to my mother, never lifting my head. Never looking her in the eye.

Sylvia was my Mom’s hairdresser and very dear friend. Me and Steve called her “Aunt Sylvia” even though she wasn’t our aunt. Her fuzzy head full of red hair, dangling earrings, cig breath, and long line of “men friends” qualified her as our favorite “crazy Aunt Sylvia”.

“She’s here,” Mom said. “She will fix this, it will be OK,” Mom’s voice quivered. 

“Where’s my MILL-EEE!!” Aunt Sylvia yodeled as she burst into the living room. “I’m here to save your horrible hair problem and I-“

“OH MY GOD!” Aunt Sylvia yelled.  She cupped her mouth, stunned and flustered by what she saw as I walked into the living room. 

“Cindi, WHAT did YOU DO to your hair?” she asked, clearly distressed at what she saw.

“My Dad did it,” I said, looking down. 

“What? WHAT?” she yelled. “And what the HELL is on your neck?” she kept yelling. “ Millee, Millee! What the HELL is going on here?” she screamed, as she looked at my Mom.

Aunt Sylvia started to cry. I started to cry. And my Mom stood behind me, vigorously shaking her head side to side and mouthing “no”, trying to signal Aunt Sylvia to stop verbalizing her shock; I could see my Mom’s reflection in the TV screen in front of me. 

Aunt Sylvia ignored my Mom’s frantic antics. She reached up and gently gathered a small parcel of my hair stubs in between her thumb and middle finger. 

“There’s nothing I can do here,” she said. “I can’t even twist this around my smallest curling iron.” She looked at me straight on. I looked at the floor. And my Mom looked at the short, blonde pageboy wig she held in her hands. 

I think it was Aunt Sylvia that called the police on my Dad, but I’m not sure.

If you walk with your head down, way down, so that no one can see what your eyes are looking at, people tend to leave you alone, even in middle school. 

I kept my head way down. I knew everyone was looking at me, and some kids didn’t even know who I was with the wig on. 

I never looked up, ever. 

“Wow! I like the new look!” Dan said loud, as he walked down the hall from his locker towards me. He was smiling. I looked up long enough to see his round, white, river-rock teeth. 

“What made you put on your Mom’s wig?” he asked. It was the first time I held my head up. Once Dan looked at my eyes, he knew there was something wrong, terribly wrong. 

I told him what happened. I described to him what my Dad did to me. And I didn’t cry or blubber or hide my head in the locker, either. 

“Of course he told me not to see you anymore, but that’s never going to happen, ever, EVER!!” I screamed, and I slammed my locker door, over and over and over. 

His mouth and eyes flew open, his face looked like it was going to blow off his head, and tears streamed down his cheeks. 

“THAT BASTARD! THAT SON OF A BITCH! I’M GONNA KILL HIM!” he kept blowing out venom-laced cuss words, pacing and stomping, and waving his arms until Principle Doftgren came up behind him, grabbed Dan by the back of his shirt collar, and dragged him down the hall, into his office. 

I went to class. My turtleneck hid the hickey bandage and a few of my friends thought I looked cute with the wig but thought it was weird. I pretended it was all quite normal and that I wanted to switch it up for a new look. I had to remember that no one knew what my Dad did, and I wasn’t going to tell them. Except for Shelly. She was my best friend in middle school and throughout most of high school. And after that day, Principle Doftgren knew too, because Dan told him why he was so upset. 

None of that mattered though. None of it. It didn’t matter how many times my Dad beat me the same way on the same couch (four more times), he would not win. I would win. I don’t remember hating my Dad, I remember feeling enraged, in battle, at war, and there was nothing besides him killing me, which he threatened to do once, that would stop me from being with Dan, kissing Dan, holding Dan, feeling Dan, and Dan feeling me back. 

Each beating, each stroke of that belt, fortified me with more grit, more iron, more resolve to stay with Dan. The beatings strengthened me, hardened me, and enraged me.

Until I was tired of it.

After weeks and months of being grounded I finally managed to avoid getting caught with Dan long enough to earn a reprieve. I was allowed to go to a football game at Southwestern Central High School. My childhood best friend, Patty Kelly, said I could ride with her and her mom to and from the game and that I would be home by 10:00 that night.

I had one week before the game to plan with Dan how and when and where we would meet up. 

“I don't care what you do while we're at the game”, Patty said to me before we left, “but you better be at the car 15 minutes before ten because that's when we're leaving no matter what, and you know how my mom is,” Patty warned me. I promised Patty I would be there, and I meant it. 

I was in Dan's arms within minutes after arriving at the game. We met at our special meeting spot under the bleachers, and I knew the next three hours and fifteen minutes, would be blissful. 

And it was.

We left the game immediately and headed for the railroad tracks not far from the school. We walked the tracks for thirty minutes to a place in the woods behind Jamesway Department Store in Lakewood called The Hut. 

The Hut was a two-story tree fort built by the junior and senior boys, complete with three couches and a gas stove downstairs, and two sets of bunkbeds upstairs. A wide, sturdy 20’ ladder was constructed that led up to the three-board-thick, locked hatch. 

The Hut had been built by the junior and senior boys, known as the “Hut Brothers”, at least five years before I got there. The place was notorious for the parties and the pot and the sex and was despised by all the parents who forbade their daughters from ever going there.  

Right.

Dan was one of the Hut Brothers. Although he was younger than the junior and senior boys, he hung out with them, partly because he lived close to the Hut, and partly because, he was cool. Cool enough to have earned a prized set of keys that unlocked the fat hatch to The Hut. 

I was scared and excited and shaking when I saw it. But Dan assured me that we would be safe, that he would take care of me, and he showed me how to climb the ladder and how to roll through the hatch and into the Hut. 

Once we got inside, he lit the stove and a few candles, and it was just us. Dan and I had a wonderful, magical time there.

And we were vigilant, checking his watch over and over, knowing we needed to leave the Hut no later than 9 to make sure we got back in time to Mrs. Kelly’s car. Honestly, we did! But we didn’t climb out of the hatch and down the ladder until almost 9:20. So we started running and running down the shoulder of Fairmount Avenue, cars whizzing by us by inches, sweating like dogs, half hitch-hiking, until it became clear that we would not make it back in time to Mrs. Kelly's car.

“Well, let’s go back to my parent’s house and my Mom or Dad will bring you home, and if we run back..,” Dan started to say.

“No.” I said.

“Well, maybe if we go down through Lakewood we can..” he tried again.

“No.” I said.

“So what are you going to do? Just walk home and get there when you get there?” he asked.

“No.” I said. “I’m not going home. I’m not going to get beat again. I’m tired of fighting with my Dad,” I told Dan. “He’s not going to win.”

“Well where are you going to go?” he asked.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I just know that I am not going home anymore,” I said firmly. 

We continued walking and made it back to Southwestern, long after the game had ended, around 10:30. A few kids and their parents were straggling along in the parking lot and the stadium was empty, but the high school was still open, so we went in. 

And we stayed there all night. 

We played hide-n-seek with a custodian all night long. He knew someone was in the school that shouldn’t be in the school, but he did his job throughout the night, turned off all the lights around 4 a.m., and left the building.

I was tired and hungry and scared by 4 a.m., but not as scared as I would be if I had to go home, especially now. I wondered where I would go, what I could get to eat. I wondered if my Mom and Dad went to bed early and didn’t know that I never came home, or maybe they thought I was home, but since it was after my ten o’clock deadline, maybe my Dad just hung his thick belt over my bedroom doorknob, like he did the last time. And I got it before I went to school that day.

I had to pee so bad, but I couldn’t pee no matter what because I didn’t want Dan to hear me peeing. There just couldn’t be anything more embarrassing than that. I went into the girl’s bathroom in the science wing on the third floor and sat on the toilet for such a long time. Then I heard the door squeak open and I almost yelled “DAN! GET OUT!” but the sound of a rolling mop bucket echoed in the bathroom. I immediately lifted my feet off the floor, trying to get my pants up while I scuttled my knees to my chest, praying the janitor would not try to open the stall door. Tears started rolling down my cheeks at the thought of getting caught and going home. 

It wasn’t long before the bathroom door opened again and I heard footsteps exit the ladies room. 

Slowly, I pushed the ladies room door open just enough to peek through the slimmest crack I could make. 

Nothing. I saw no one. 

I gently pushed the door open just enough to slip through sideways, I looked left, looked right, and ran like hell down the hall to the stairs. It took me seconds to double-step down two flights. At the bottom, in the stairwell, stood Dan. We had met here several times during the last few months.

“We gotta get out of here,” Dan whispered. “It’s going to be light soon and we don’t want anyone seeing us get back to the Hut,” he told me. 

“So we’re going back there?” I asked him. 

“Yup. I don’t know what else to do until we figure this out,” he told me. “Plus, I gotta work today.” 

Dan had a part-time job at the Lakewood Bowling Alley on Fairmont Avenue. He fixed jammed bowling pin machines, cleaned the allies, and was pretty good friends with Joey Fedricks, the manager.

“I’ll only be a couple hours, and I can get us some food. Joey will help us out, he’s a good friend,” Dan told me. 

We made it back to the Hut before full sunlight and I was exhausted. I collapsed on the couch, which, by the way, was constructed of two, 2X8 boards held up by two cinder blocks on each end, replete with lawn chair seat cushions, covered in tattered, faded flower canvas from a summer long-gone. Dan pulled out a stinky old sleeping bag from under the couch. He shook it outside as best he could, then draped it gently over me. Then he collapsed in a heap on the other couch, just as drained as I was. 

It was close to ten o’clock when Dan jolted off the couch. “I gotta be at work by ten!” he said in a huff. “I’ll only be a few hours and I’ll bring back some stuff to eat and we’ll figure out what we’re going to do, but don’t worry, because I’m not going to let that happen to you anymore,” he told me, firmly. “Never again!” he yelled, “NEVER!” 

And I believed him. 

“But what if I have to go to the bathroom?” I asked him as he had one leg out of the hatch and was ready to back down the stairs. 

“That’s what the woods are for,” he smiled with a wink, and closed the hatch with a bang. I went right back to sleep. 

When I woke up, I had no idea what time it was, and I had cramps. It wasn’t long after I woke, I heard something rustling through the leaves. I crawled up the wall ladder to the second floor, and peered out the only tiny window in the building, between the two sets of bunk beds. It was Dan.

“Look!” Dan said excited, shoving a paper bag into my hands as he climbed through the hatch. I opened it. 

“I got Hostess Cupcakes and three Hershey bars, and some chips and here’s a bottle of Coke and 7-Up too.” He seemed genuinely proud of his ability to take care of me, happy to provide for me. 

“I called my Mom and told her I spent the night at Phil’s house and that I would see her later today. So she’s fine with that,” he said. 

“Did you tell your Mom or Joey about me? About us?” I asked him.

“Joey knows, but no way I’m telling my Mom,” he said. “Have you thought about what you want to do? About where you want to go?” Dan asked, timidly.

“I gotta go to the bowling alley,” I told him. “Now.” 

“Why? What if someone sees you?” he asked. 

“I got my period,” I told him. “And I’m a mess.” I started to cry and I continued to cry. 

Dan sat down next to me on the couch and I leaned into his chest, resting the side of my head next to his heart. His heart was beating hard and fast. He wrapped one arm around my shoulders and one arm around my waist, and slowly, gently rocked me back and forth. 

By the time we walked to the bowling alley about two miles away, down the railroad tracks again, I was in very bad shape. Physically, mentally, emotionally. The bowling alley wasn’t open yet, but Dan had a key, and he had a pocket full of change, which he gave to me. I went right to the lady’s room, locked the door, and put my pants and underwear into the tiny sink. I used paper towels and the soap dispenser to wash myself, then I began washing my clothes. 

After I sufficiently laundered my underwear, I wrung it out as hard as I could, then I spun it around my index finger, in an effort to be a human dryer. I didn’t really care if I had to wear wet clothes, as long as they were clean. And I bought three pads with the change Dan gave me.

By the time we walked back to the Hut, it was almost dark. And it was very, very cold. Dan bundled me on the couch again and started a fire in the gas heater. He lit a candle. I felt safe, always so safe, so cared for with Dan. He never pushed me for anything. He never asked me to do anything, to him or with him. He didn’t have to. 

We talked for hours that night, our bodies lying adjacent on the couches, always holding hands, touching hands, our fingers sifting through each other, one at a time. He talked about how he wanted people to know how smart he was, but he hated school, and I talked about how I wanted to be married and in love and have fun forever, just like my parents. That's all I ever really wanted: to be married and have fun and be in love for a really long time, just like my parents.

It’s all I still want.

“Joey said he has a cousin who has a nice cabin in the woods in South Carolina and he said his cousin wouldn’t mind if we stayed there,” Dan told me. “I can get enough money for a couple bus tickets and we can go there if you want,” he said. 

The thought of this sent a shiver like a shiv from my heart up my spine that sliced through my brain with a reality check: I’m really not going home. 

“Get enough for me, for my bus ride,” I told him. “You stay. You don’t need to come with me. I’m not going to screw up your-“

“FORGET it!” he yelled at me. “That’s so STUPID! You KNOW how much I love you. I promised that your Dad will never do that again. And I love you! I would never let you go by yourself, so don’t bring it up again.” He was angry. I had never seen him this mad. 

“OK, alright, but how soon can we go?” I asked him.

“We can go the day after tomorrow. Just one more day here and I’ll make sure where we’re going and get some money and buy the tickets,” Dan said. “Just give me one more day.”

We slept. But before the sun came up, the gas stove ran out of fuel. I looked over at Dan. He was crunched up in a fetal position, shivering on the board-hard couch. I got up, covered him with my sleeping bag, and waited for him to stop shivering. 

He soon sat up, looked at his watch, and said “I have to work at least six hours today to get enough money for the bus. I know you’ll be alone here all day, but I promise to bring you more food and the other things you need and we’ll be out of here tomorrow.” I believed him. And he left.

It was a very long day. Even with the hatch door open just a few inches, the Hut was full of dark shadows and dinge. For a while, I tried to tidy up the place. I found the bristle end of an old broom under one of the couches and swept everything in sight. I shook out all the raggy cushions and swept the floor upstairs and downstairs, making neat little piles of dirt that I pushed onto an old piece of paper that said “Hut Brothers Only” on one side, and “Girls Party” on the other. 

It was almost seven o’clock when Dan got back. He had more gas for the stove, another bag full of junk snacks that tasted like steak to me, and a half box of pads. “Did you get the bus tickets?” I asked him. 

“We gotta get outta here first thing in the morning,” he said urgently. “There’s an eastern seaboard all-points bulletin out for you and me. It’s been on the news on Kissin (WKSN radio) since yesterday and your parents have been to my parents’ house looking for you and me.” He began to shake all over and his teeth started chattering. 

I almost peed myself when he told me this. I never stopped to think about what my parents might do. I only thought about what I was doing, which was not getting beat anymore. At some point, I think I made myself believe that they were just as glad to get rid of me as I was to get rid of that belt.

Neither of us slept that night. Every little squirrel or bird that scurried through the leaves sent our hearts racing and sent me rushing up the wall ladder to the window upstairs; if it was nothing, I stomped once on the floor. Two stomps would mean someone’s coming. 

It was almost 7:30 in the morning when we woke, and the sun was just coming up. We shoved as much food and pads in the paper sack as we could, and fastened up our coats. Dan started to open the hatch, then quickly stopped and pulled it back, silently. 

“SHHHH! Someone’s coming. I can hear people talking to one another,” he stuttered in fear. I climbed the wall ladder before he could finish his sentence. Then I stomped twice on the floor. 

My Dad was coming through the woods, flanked by two state police officers. I could see faint red lights flashing in the Jamesway parking lot. 

My Dad and the police stood talking at the bottom of the ladder for a moment. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but then I heard my Dad: “No, I’ll go up; you get down, I’ll go up,” he commanded. 

I could hear the rungs crack with each step of his bulky work boots on the ladder. He was coming. I stretched both arms out, grasping the slats of the bunk beds to steady myself, to hold my body up from collapsing under my quivering legs. He was coming.

I heard the hatch suck open. I saw a beam from his flashlight pass by the wall ladder. Then it was quiet. 

“Harold, are you OK? Do you see anything?” one of the policemen yelled up at my Dad. “No, there’s nothing here, there’s no one here,” he said. 

I couldn’t believe my Dad didn’t hear my heart pounding like an oil rig. I took a breath, a slight breath.

“Do you want one of us to come up, go inside and have a look?” they asked. They knew my Dad was way too big to fit through the hatch. 

“No, there’s no one here I tell you,” and I could hear the creak of the latch door closing; I took another tiny breath. 

“They’re not – ” he stopped. I heard the hatch lift open again. He saw a glimpse, the slightest tic of a foot under the couch. He spotlighted the foot then yelled, “Alright Spring, get up, get out,” he thundered. “Where’s Cindi?” he gritted.

“She’s upstairs.” 

“Come down here now!” he hollered. “NOW!”

I peed myself. 

We walked through the woods to the Jamesway parking lot, my Dad and the two policemen behind us. There were two fire trucks and four police cars, lights flashing, in the parking lot. And my Dad’s Ford pickup truck. Dan was ushered into one of the police cars. I was praying the police would make me get into one of the police cars. But my Dad ordered me to the truck. 

We were both taken to the Lakewood Police Department. I was questioned by the police for about an hour about my relationship with Dan. Things like “Did he force you to go with him, to leave with him? Did he harm you? Did he hurt you? Did he make you do anything that you didn’t want to do?” I just kept crying and shaking my head no, and crying. I wanted to tell them about what my Dad did to me, but they never asked me why I ran away. I wanted to tell them how afraid I was that my Dad was going to kill me, but I just couldn’t. I wanted them to lock me up so bad. But they didn’t

After my Dad spent a long time convincing the police not to make a permanent record of this, and after the police admonished me for running away and causing my parents so much pain, they released me to go home. 

But they kept Dan. 

I got in the truck and cuddled up as close as I could to the door, thinking I could open the door and jump out if my Dad took a swat at me. I’d seen him do that to Steve a couple times. He could throw a quick crack across the cab of the truck with lightening speed. But he didn’t. 

When I got home, I walked through the front door and saw my Mom standing in the living room, her arms across her chest, her face red and so angry. I thought maybe she would hug me and then yell at me. That didn’t happen.

She grabbed my forearm so tight, it left a black and blue mark. She dragged me to the bathroom and shoved me in as hard as she could; I tripped on the toilet and fell halfway into the tub. There were scrub brushes and Brillo pads and a can of Comet on the toilet tank. She picked up the Comet and threw it at the back of my head and screamed louder than I ever heard her scream, “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO YOUR DAD? YOU CLEAN AND SCRUB EVERY SINGLE CORNER OF THIS BATHROOM AND DO NOT COME OUT UNTIL I TELL YOU TO!!” and she slammed the door shut so hard that the picture of Norwegian Jesus fell off the wall. 

I did as she told me. I started scrubbing the tub. I could hear people talking in the living room, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then I heard the garage door open, then close, and I heard my Dad’s truck peel up Livingston Avenue. 

I kept cleaning and scrubbing and was so glad to be in the bathroom, so glad it wasn’t time for me to get it yet, so glad my Dad wasn’t home. 

I think it must have been close to an hour before I heard it: the sirens. Lots and lots of sirens. And then, I heard the truck door slam in the driveway. 

My Dad opened the bathroom door and told me to go sit on the couch. He pulled up the footstool in front of me and sat on it, so we were eye-to-eye. He sat there, and just looked at me for a while. I kept my head down and sobbed. I knew what was coming.

Then he started asking me questions. Some of the same questions the police asked me. I just kept crying and crying and shaking my head no. No, he didn’t force me to go with him. No, he wasn’t mean to me. No he didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do. Then he took a breath and asked me,

“Did you have intercourse with him?”

I didn’t know what that meant. I knew it had to do with sex, and I knew how babies were made because Carla told me, but I didn’t know that making babies was called intercourse. 

“I don’t know what that is,” I sobbed uncontrollably. 

“Well, do you think you could be pregnant?” he said angrily, nastily. 

“No Dad, no Dad, no Dad, we didn’t touch each other there, we don’t do stuff like that,” I could barely talk, couldn’t stand that he was even asking me these questions. I just wanted to punch him in the face so bad, I wanted to knock his head clean off his shoulders. I didn’t start hating him until then. It didn’t matter to me what he did to me after that, either. I just hated him so much at that instant. I could have killed him at that instant. 

“Do you hear that?” he said, standing up, undoing his belt. 

“Yes,” I said.

“There’s a fire. Something is burning,” he said.

“Stand up, take your pants off,” he said. 

I knew what to do. I stopped crying. I didn’t yell or beg for him to stop. I knew what to do. So I did it. And I laid there, until he was done telling me:

“There’s a fire at the Hut”, my Dad said low, “and YOU did it. YOU kicked the stove over when you left. YOU burnt the Hut down, do you understand me?” 

My face was shoved deep between the scratchy cushion and the back of that ugly green couch. But I shook my head yes. 

“And if you ever say any different, I will kill you,” he said. And I believed him.

I just lay there, waiting for him to begin. And he did. 

But he only hit me once, with the buckle end this time, and then, I heard my brother Steve yell “STOP YOU BASTARD!”. 

I flipped over just in time to see Steve fly off the side of the stairs and tackle my Dad to the floor.

“NO MORE! NO MORE!” he kept screaming at Dad as they wrestled on the living room floor, Steve grabbing at the belt, trying to get it away from my Dad.

“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO DO THIS TO HER ANYMORE YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Steve kept screaming and yelling this over and over, until Steve finally swiped the belt out of my Dad’s hand, threw it into the dining room, and pinned my Dad’s arms to the floor. 

But not for long. 

My Dad pushed Steve off like a rag doll. Steve got up, my Dad got up, I got up and Steve yelled “go to the bathroom and lock the door”, but my Dad blocked the doorway. Then my Dad grabbed each side of Steve’s head near his ears, and lifted Steve up off his feet by his hair, shaking him wildly. Steve held onto my Dad’s Popeye forearms and balanced himself so that the pressure was on Dad’s arms and not Steve’s hair. 

By this time I had managed to get off the couch and put my underwear on. I picked up my pee-laden pants and whacked my Dad over the head repeatedly with those stinky, gross jeans until he put Steve down. He swiped a whack at me but missed and Steve yelled for me to go to the bathroom again. 

So I did. I heard more commotion in the living room but it was soon drowned out by the sound of sirens in front of our house.

BANG BANG BANG

“Mr. Bush, open up, this is the police.”

My Dad smoothed down his hair and Steve did the same. They wiped the sweat off their faces and adjusted their shirts. Then my Dad opened the door to let the police in. I cracked open the bathroom door so I could hear what was going on.

“Mr. Bush, the Hut has burnt to the ground and the woods have caught fire behind Jamesway. We think you might know something about this. Where were you about two hours ago?” the police asked. 

“I’ve been right here, haven’t left the house since this morning,” he told the police. “Isn’t that right Steve?” he asked my brother. 

“Yup, he’s been right here,” Steve said, red-faced, but straight faced.

“Is there anyone else here that can verify that?” they asked.

“Cindi, Cindi, are you out of the shower yet?” my Dad yelled to me.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and beat feet to the living room. 

“I’m right here Dad, what’s up?” I said.

“Can you verify where your Dad has been for the last two hours?” the police asked me.

“He’s been right here, with me and my brother,” I told them. “He’s been doing some paperwork at his desk,” I pointed. 

I looked like hell. Steve looked like hell. My Dad looked like hell. And the police looked at us and knew we were all lying. 

But they left. And my dad left me alone, and he left Steve alone, and he left the house and went to Mallare’s. 

Dan and his family moved away, my Dad never beat me again, and I have no idea where my mother was. I never saw her when my Dad did this to me. Ever.