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Still cracking up, I wrestled with him, trying to pull his hands away. I succeeded, and I saw that he had an erection.
Something was very wrong. The pupils of his eyes had become tiny, almost as small as the point of a pencil. One was
Suddenly, he said, “Hey, I know . . . would you like me to get in bed with you and read you some Uncle Wiggily stories?”
“You peed!” I blurt out, dismay and surprise overriding fear. The sheet was all wet. I don’t remember what he said to explain this.
I began to guard myself more physically, trying to control his hands, which were on me too much for my comfort.
Ted had grabbed a
camera and run into the bathroom where I was naked in the tub. He took a picture of me, cringing and embarrassed. He told my grandmother, who was an avid photographer, “She will appreciate having this picture later!”
One was how he would carry me: he would put me in kind of a crotch hold. I remember that a couple of times his fingers had slipped inside my underwear and touched me.
One night at dinner, Ted scooped me onto his lap and did the crotch hold in front of my mom. “Ted!” she roared. “Do not hold her like that!” “Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it, Liz, geez. You are completely overreacting!” And then it was over, and he didn’t do that anymore.
As for robbing Ted of his precious Liz? Not sorry. Not one bit sorry.
