Ethel Merman, Mother Teresa...and Me. Tony Cointreau
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roomful of them. I dreaded the year ahead.
Mr. Fuller, my new homeroom teacher, saw my tears and made a special effort to comfort me. He became my friend. Lucy saw him every day when she picked me up at school, and I could see that she had a crush on him, but he was my friend. From the beginning of the school year he gave me a special honor. I was proud when he asked me to stay with him in the afternoons after everyone else had gone, and put books and projects back into place.
It wasn’t long before he began to give me certain instructions that I knew I had to carry out precisely, and that had to remain our secret.
His desk was at the opposite end of the room from the door, facing sideways. First I had to stand next to his chair, with my back to the door, while he sat so deep into his desk that even I could not see what he was doing; only my back was visible if someone came to the door. I had to get as close to Mr. Fuller as possible while he reached for the opening in my pants. Then my mind went blank and time stood still. The last thing I could remember was looking down at the top of his grey hair from what seemed like a great distance. I never had to do anything—only stand there, perfectly still, while he did whatever he wanted with my body; I was the object.
When Lucy showed up to take me home, I always wondered how it had gotten so late. Hard as I tried, I could never comprehend where the time had gone. And Lucy, who had an extraordinary ability to ignore anything when it suited her, never questioned the situation when she came to pick me up after my solitary afternoons with Mr. Fuller.
On a sunny autumn day my school took a group of children to the country. Mr. Fuller said that he had a special surprise for me and I mustn’t tell anyone. He took me away from the others and told me to follow him into the woods and up a hill. There was a little stream running down the hill. It was only trickling water and I couldn’t understand why he made me walk up the middle of the stream instead of going along the side where it was dry.
By the time we reached the top, my shorts had gotten slightly wet, so he insisted that I take all my clothes off to dry. The sunlight filtering through the trees onto my naked body only highlighted my vulnerability. I was confused, not knowing what Mr. Fuller expected of me this time, and embarrassed by my nakedness. He positioned me in a certain way, and told me not to look back. None of his instructions made sense to me, but I obeyed him without question. Then I sensed his presence behind me. Endless time seemed to pass while I waited patiently in the pose he had indicated.
I hardly dared to breathe.
Then without warning he made his move, and I was too young and too innocent to protest or even to understand what he was doing, as he struggled to violate my young body in the worst possible way. I simply went numb.
One of my friends calling from the bottom of the hill finally brought me back to reality and Mr. Fuller into frenzied action. He insisted that I get my clothes back on, and nearly threw me down the hill. My little pal looked at me as I ran down the hill, buttoning my pants, and said, “You shouldn’t take off your pants with him. You don’t have to do that.” I was stunned by the notion that a child could have such boundaries.
By the time we reached the others, the pain had seared through to my consciousness. It nearly took my breath away. I hadn’t realized how badly Mr. Fuller had hurt me, and I didn’t understand the magnitude of what he had just done to me. The kids and teachers continued to play games while I lay on a tree trunk that had fallen down. I looked around for the only person I thought would understand and make it better, but Mr. Fuller wouldn’t come near me. And I never cried.
My mother, who had never met Mr. Fuller, answered the phone the next Saturday when he called to say that he was supposed to take some children to the country for the day. He told her that none of the other kids were able to make it, but he would be happy to take me anyway. Mother instinctively felt uncomfortable with the idea and made an excuse as to why I couldn’t go.
That night Mr. Fuller was arrested while sexually molesting another little boy. The story was in all the newspapers and Monday morning when I went to school, a new teacher had taken his place.
I never saw Mr. Fuller again, and even though my mother questioned me, I never gave him away. After all, I thought he was my friend. As far as I was concerned, that was my relationship with Mr. Fuller: he was my friend. It had nothing to do with sex; I didn’t understand sex at that age. It was uncomfortable, terrible—but he made it clear to me that it was my responsibility to be sure that no one knew what was happening while I was standing next to his desk; it was my responsibility that no one found out about our secret. It would be my fault if someone found out.
I did not tell anyone for forty-two years. I had no idea what price I was to pay for my silence.
Winter: The Hospital
A few weeks after Mr. Fuller had been arrested, I woke up feeling sick to my stomach and had to stay in bed all day, waiting for the doctor to come and see me. After a quick examination he told my parents that I would have to go to the hospital right away to have my appendix removed.
I wasn’t particularly frightened, since Tata had often described the hospital as a wonderful place where you can pick up the phone at any time to order ice cream. The only reason I was upset was because I was not allowed to get dressed for the trip. The very idea of going out in public without the proper clothes filled me with acute embarrassment. My father, however, ignored my protests, put a blanket around me, and carried me into a taxi. Mother, who was suffering from neuritis in her shoulder and arm, got out of her bed to accompany us to the hospital. I could see Mother’s concern for me, mingled with the physical pain she was enduring.
It was dark when we arrived at Doctors Hospital on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and the situation there was not at all what I had been led to expect—certainly not private phones and ice cream. I don’t remember any pain, only fear at the increasing number of doctors and nurses examining me and trying to stick needles in my arms. They decided that it was an emergency and scheduled the operation for ten o’clock that evening. By this time I knew that whatever I had been told had been a lie. I wanted no part of the hospital and tried to tell them that I was fine, couldn’t they please forget about the operation and let me go home.
Surrounded by strangers who ignored my pleas, I became increasingly tearful until a young Asian nurse bent down next to my bed and put her arms around me. She spoke softly and made me feel that she really cared. I wanted to spend the rest of my life being comforted by her. Thanks to her I let them do the unthinkable—stick a needle in my arm with a minimum of fuss. As was the case with so many of the guardian angels who would appear to me in a moment of crisis and then disappear, I never saw her again.
After the operation, I emerged from a very real dream state in which many people that I had known were coming by to see me. When my thoughts cleared and the post-operative discomfort began, I found myself in a white room with two single beds and a wooden screen with a dim light behind it. I looked over at the other bed and was surprised to see Lucy, sleeping peacefully. I hadn’t known that Mother had arranged for her to spend the night in the hospital with me; I’m sure she thought it would be comforting for me to awaken with someone I knew in the room. I started to cry and asked Lucy to come over to me, but she wouldn’t. She whispered, “You mustn’t speak to me because your nurse might get angry if I interfere with her job.”
The nurse heard me wake up, came out from behind the screen and handed me a basin to throw up in while Lucy lay silently a few feet away. Once again I wondered why she refused to protect and comfort me. There were so many things that I couldn’t understand.
At dawn Lucy went home to take care of my brother, and another private nurse came on duty to care for me. I didn’t cry when she gave me an injection every four hours; on some level of consciousness I must have understood that the drugs took away the pain for a little while.
My aunt Tata came to visit me every day. She was wonderful to be with because she always treated me like a little adult. My first morning in the hospital, she sent me one of the best presents of my life—a whole rose bush. It was covered with dozens of little pink roses and sat on the windowsill where I could look at it all day. My mother told Tata that it was silly