Signs of Abuse

Writing the other day about our family car being stolen reminded me of another story that ended well as far as the car was concerned, but I've only recently begun to understand the deeper meaning of the incident.

When Frank D. was only twelve or thirteen years old, he stole his stepfather's car and drove from Elizabeth Park, just east of Kellogg, all the way to State Line, before he was apprehended and returned to his home.

Only recently, I connected some dots about that incident. Frank and I were boy scouts together. One Saturday we went on a five mile hike with an older scout, Bob. Frank and I were sixth graders and Bob was a sophomore in high school. We went to my house after the hike and went upstairs to my bedroom to shoot the breeze.

At some point in our conversation, Bob began to masturbate in front of me and Frank and achieved orgasm.

I have no idea what I said, probably nothing, but Frank seized the moment to tell us that his stepfather often came into his bedroom at night, crawled into his bed, and performed fellatio on him.

Again, as a sixth grader, I was way out of my depth. But, I've never been able to shake the memory of Frank making that confession to us. Moreover, I've never been able to shake the memory of sharing a four-man tent with Frank at Boy Scout camp the summer after we were seventh graders, and learning early in the week that he had brought a stash of pornographic magazines.

Pornography. Molestation. He stole the car of his predatory stepfather. He was caught speeding at about 85 miles per hour at State Line.

In junior high, we laughed and laughed and laughed about Frank stealing the car and speeding.

We didn't know as junior high kids that Frank had to get out of that house. He had to have decided one day that the best way to escape his stepfather's molestation was to steal the car and drive like a bat out of hell to the west.

Frank left Kellogg Junior High not long after this incident. I don't know where he moved to. I know his stepfather did not move. He remained a baker and member of the golf club at Kellogg.

I haven't seen Frank since the eighth or ninth grade. Whenever I read stories about kids doing things like Frank did, I can't help but think something dark underlies these kids' behavior.

I know it did with Frank.