by Susan Sanders
My uncle took my hand on the road home after babysitting, his breath reeked of whiskey
and cigarettes. No, I said, but he forced my young fingers to touch his hardness
in the dark car that November night just after I turned 16, my hair curled perfectly,
my eyes shut tight so I couldn’t see what I was doing, his drunken voice softly coaxing me to
keep going and going until he started driving again and stopped the car at the end of the
driveway. A few years later, he was charged with molesting a girl from another town. Due
to the lack of any witnesses, he never faced any charges. When my brother was injured in a fatal accident, I rode to the hospital with my uncle and his new wife, barely of age. Â
The car was a beater, with worn-out shocks and torn smoky scented seats. I sat in the back and wondered if he remembered his hand forcing me to do what should be a sacred act between people who are not related.