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I shook my head. I didn't know what to say. What sort of questions did he expect I would ask? My hesitation didn't discourage him.
"I realize," he said, nodding, "that you can't get yourself to put these feelings into words. It was the same for me as it was for your mother.
"When I first met her, she wasn't much older than you are now, and I was about your age, you know. We confided in each other then," he said in a whisper. "We revealed our innermost thoughts and feelings. We trusted each other. If she trusted me, you certainly can."
He pressed his right palm over the small of my stomach and slid it slowly and smoothly up a few inches. I jumped at his touch, but that didn't dissuade him. He didn't care or seem to notice how I cringed under him.
"You know, I was the first boy, the first man, to touch her here," he said, moving his palm lightly up and over my breast. My heart began to pound so hard, I thought it might beat his hand away. I held my breath, unable to believe what was happening.
"I helped her to explore, to understand," he said. "I can do that for you, too. You don't have to go to books and read them secretly in your room to discover these things. Just ask me anything you want . . . anything," he said quietly.
I couldn't move; I couldn't speak; I couldn't swallow. He closed his eyes and moved his hand from breast to breast slowly over my pajama top, his thumb pressing a bit harder, until he touched my nipple. I jumped and he opened his eyes.
"Uncle Philip!"
"It's all right; it's all right. There, there, don't be frightened. “You want to understand everything, don't you?" he asked. "So you don't get yourself into trouble. Sure you do," he added nodding. "Too many young girls your age falter about and fall into the wrong hands. They don't know how far they should go and they get themselves into desperate situations. You don't want that to happen to you, do you?"
"It won't happen to me, Uncle Philip," I man-aged to say and pulled myself up in the bed so that his hand dropped from my breasts. Quickly, I embraced myself, covering my bosom with my arms protectively.
"Don't be arrogant and overconfident about it," he warned. "You don't understand what goes on in a man and how he can lose control of his own emotions. You should know what not to do," he advised, "what sort of things can drive a man to lose control of himself. Don't you want me to help you understand that?"
I shook my head.
"If Betty Ann is right and you're meeting someone . . ."
"I'm not," I said.
He stared at me a moment and then his smile returned and he reached out to stroke my hair.
"It's just that you're so pretty, and at a desirable age. I'd hate to see anything, anyone ruin you, spoil you, especially some oversexed teenage boy," he added, his expression changing to one of anger and indignation. "I'd feel terrible; I'd feel responsible. I'd feel I hadn't done my duty," he added.
"That won't happen, Uncle Philip."
"But you'll promise me you will come to me if you have any questions, any confusion. Promise me you'll trust me and let me help you," he said.
"I promise." I would promise anything at this moment to get him to leave, I thought.
His smile returned and he took a deep breath.
"I'll calm Betty Ann down and see to it that she lifts her restrictive curfew from you," he promised. "Can we . . . can I . . . have these personal talks with you from time to time? We won't tell Betty Ann," he added quickly. "She wouldn't understand and she's far too nervous to appreciate how important this can be. All right?" he persisted. His hand was on my knee.
"Yes," I said quickly.
"Good. Good." He patted me on the thigh and stood up. "Sleep well and remember I am here for you. I will be a mother and a father to you. You don't even have to call me Uncle Philip, if you don't want to. You can just call me Philip. Okay?"
I nodded.
"Okay. Good night, my sweet one," he said and knelt down to kiss me on the cheek. His lips felt like two tiny flames on my face and I snapped back quickly, but he didn't notice. His eyes were closed and he wore a look of deep satisfaction. He remained beside me a moment and then stood up again. "Good night, princess," he said and finally left me.
Even after he had gone and closed the door behind him, I couldn't move. My body felt frozen in a cake of ice. What had happened seemed more like a nightmare. Had it happened or had I indeed dreamt it? The memory of his fingers on my breasts was too strong and remained too vivid for it to have been anything but real, I thought.
Aunt Bet tormented Jefferson and me with her horrid rules and her insane attention to neatness and cleanliness; the twins were spiteful and jealous and sought only to make our lives more miserable, and Uncle Philip terrified me with his strange sexual advances and weird ideas.
How miserable our lives were now, and for what reason? What had we done to deserve this wretched and contemptible fate? Surely, I was right to believe there was a curse on our family. It wasn't something anyone else could appreciate or understand. I felt the inherited strain of disaster running through our destinies, saw the perennial gray clouds of gloom hovering over our heads, and understood that no matter how hard we tried, how fast we ran, or how much we prayed, the cold rain of anguish and grief would drop torrents of misfortune on our heads.
This spell had begun because of some horrible sin committed by one of our ancestors. Whoever he or she was, he or she had shaken hands with the devil and we were still paying for that evil act.
Somehow, some way, I hoped I could discover what it was and beg God's forgiveness. Perhaps then and only then, we would be free and safe, as much as anyone could be free and safe in this world.
