Lisa Gardner - The Neighbor

Another rote answer: Worked full time, exercised, avoided drugs and alcohol, got plenty of rest, and stayed on an even keel. Well, maybe I didn’t stay on an even keel today, per se, but that is only one day out of seven, and the form is technically a weekly status report.

Question four: Describe all inappropriate or uncaring urges, fantasies, or sexual thoughts you had this week.

I write: I fantasized about having sex with a bound-and-gagged adult female.

Question five: Explain why you think each fantasy occurred.

I write: Because I’m a twenty-three-year-old celibate male who is horny as hell.

I think about it, then erase “horny as hell” and replace it with “in his sexual prime.” Mrs. Brenda Jane, the group leader, has rules about proper language for the meetings. Nobody in our group has cocks, pricks, or dicks. We have penises. Period.

For question six, I get to describe my emotional state before masturbation, during masturbation, and after masturbation. Most guys describe feeling angry or anxious. So much pressure out there and it builds and builds and builds until they have to do something about it. Some guys report crying afterward. Feeling guilty, ashamed, intensely alone, all for whacking their willy.

I don’t have anything like that to describe. I’m an auto mechanic and my masturbation these days has that same clinical feel. I’m not blowing off steam; I’m simply making sure all the parts remain in proper working order.

Question seven: What mutual sexual activity did you experience this week ?

I have nothing to report.

Question eight: What age-appropriate relationships (nonsexual) have you had or attempted this week ?

I have nothing to report.

Question nine: For all child contact, please list child’s name and age, child’s relationship to you, kind of contact, and name of chaperone present.

I have nothing to report.

And so it goes. Another weekly report, another support group meeting.

You know what we really do in these meetings? We rationalize. The father who slept with one daughter pretends he’s better than the priest who slept with fifteen altar boys. The guy who fondled pretends he’s better than the guy who penetrated. The predators who entice their victims with promises of candy, affection, or extra privileges argue they are better than the monsters who resort to violence, and the monsters who resort to violence argue they inflict less damage than the enticers who make their victims feel like they are an equal party to the crime. The state has lumped us all together, and like any organized group of people, we are desperate to differentiate.

You know why these meetings work? Because no one can spot a liar like another liar. And face it, in this room, we’re all pros.

We spend the first thirty minutes of the meeting running through the weekly status reports, then, for the first time in months, I finally have something to say.

“I think I’m going to be arrested.”

That halts conversation. Mrs. Brenda Jane clears her throat, adjusts her clipboard on her lap. “Aidan, it sounds like you have something to discuss.”

“Yeah. A woman has gone missing on my street. I figure if they don’t find her soon, they’re gonna blame me.” The words come out angry. I’m a little surprised by that. Up until now, I have considered myself resigned to my fate. But maybe I do have some expectations after all. I find myself snapping the rubber band on my wrist, a sure sign of agitation. I force myself to stop.

“You kill her?” Wendell asks. Wendell is an enormously fat white guy with neatly trimmed black facial hair. He’s well educated, quite wealthy, and has a voice that comes straight from a helium balloon. Wendell is also the reigning master of the rationalization game. He’s just a poor, picked-on exhibitionist, all show, no touch. For him to be grouped with the likes of us proves just how inhumane the criminal justice system really is.

I don’t know if Wendell is all show and no touch. In theory, as part of the intake process for the sex offender treatment program, he supplied a full autobiography of all crimes he ever committed, then was polygraphed against this history, at a cost of $150. (Which we pay ourselves, I might add, and must keep paying until we pass the polygraph test.)

Personally, I think Wendell is a freaking psychopath. Poor, picked-on exhibitionist, my ass. Wendell always targeted a specific victim group. For example, he liked to visit old folks’ homes and flash three hundred pounds of white ass before the bedridden patients who barely had the strength to shield their eyes. Then he’d motor over to the teen health clinic, where he could wag his dingdong in front of the overwhelmed fourteen-year-old who’d just learned she was eight weeks pregnant. Mostly, however, he liked to operate outside rape crisis clinics, where he could spring a massive mountain of flesh upon already traumatized women.

His final victim went home and hanged herself. But as Wendell will tell you, he’s not as bad as the rest of us.

“I didn’t touch her,” I answer now, ignoring Wendell’s knowing grin. “I didn’t even know her. But it doesn’t matter. The police will check the database and my name will come up. They’ll arrest me just on principle, and it’s not like I can make bail. They get me, I’m done.” I’m snapping the band again. I can see Mrs. Brenda Jane watching me, and once again force myself to stop.

I can already tell what she’s thinking: And how does this make you feel, Aidan Brewster ?

Trapped , I want to scream. Very, very trapped.

“A woman disappeared? In Southie? When did this happen?” Another group member, Gary Provost, speaks up. Gary is a thirty-seven-year-old alcoholic investment manager, who was caught inappropriately touching his friend’s eleven-year-old daughter. His wife left him, taking with her their two sons. His extended family is still not speaking to him. Yet of all of us, he probably has the most hope. For one thing, he still looks like a respected professional, versus a convicted pervert. For another, he seems genuinely remorseful and very dedicated to his recently achieved sobriety. Gary’s a serious one. Quiet but intelligent. Of everyone in the room, I almost like him.

“The woman disappeared last night.”

“I haven’t heard anything on the news.”

“Dunno.” I shrug.

“How old is she?” Wendell asks, cutting to the heart of the matter.

I shrug again. “She’s a mom, so mid-twenties, something like that.”

“That’ll cut you some slack,” Jim offers, “that she’s an adult and all. Plus, you don’t have a history of violence.”

Jim smiles as he says this. Jim is the only Level III sex offender in our group, meaning of all of us, he’s the one the state fears the most. An exhibitionist such as Wendell might have the highest rate of recidivism, but a hard-core pedophile such as Jim is the true monster under the bed. By Jim’s own admission, he’s attracted solely to eight-year-old boys and has probably had inappropriate relationships with thirty-five kids in a span of nearly forty years. He started when he was a fourteen-year-old babysitter. Now, at the age of fifty-five, his own flagging testosterone is finally slowing him down. Plus, the docs got him on a heavy regimen of antidepressants, the side effects of which repress the libido.

As we get to discuss in our weekly meetings, however, it’s very difficult to change sexuality. You can try to teach someone to desire adults, but it’s difficult to “remove” an object from someone’s sexual orientation, or, in other words, teach that same person not to desire kids.

Jim has a tendency to dress in Mister Rogers sweaters and suck on hard butterscotches. From that alone, I’m guessing he still fantasizes mostly about prepubescent boys.