Safe and Sound No More : When the Child Molester Turns Out to Be a Friend of the Family

DICTIONARY DEFINITIONS sometimes don’t suffice. The word molest can mean to annoy or harass. But when applied to a sexual attack, it doesn’t begin to describe the act.

I found out just how inadequate it is because, about a year ago, my children were molested.

On those rare occasions when my wife or I discuss it with close friends, the word hangs in the air, then draws looks of sorrow and expressions of concern. But even if they want to know more, few dare ask for details. The talk soon moves to other, more pleasant subjects. That’s fine because nothing about molestation is easy, least of all talking about it.

Frederick, the 13-year-old who molested my son and daughter, hasn’t been in our home for more than a year now. But like cockroaches, what he did infests our lives to this day. Do anything--open a book or a container of flour--and the memories slither out.

On Christmas, our daughter stopped emptying her stocking and said, “I bet Santa only put coal in Frederick’s stocking.” The other day, she and my wife were baking dinosaur-shaped muffins. If the fearsome allosaurus came to the door, she would kick him in the knee and run away, she told her mother. She paused. “But Mom, what would I do if (Frederick) came to the door?”

The image I had of molesters was that they were sickos in parks or people in bizarre cults who use children for God-knows-what. Frederick didn’t fit the stereotype. He played Little League baseball, was active in a children’s theater troupe and had a terrific mother. On three weekends when she had to leave town, we helped her out by having Frederick stay with us.

About two months after Frederick’s last visit, my son, then 5 and in kindergarten, began to describe what the teen-ager had done. He began with the most minor violation, awaiting my reaction before relating more. I since have learned that this is the classic pattern of behavior children follow when broaching the subject of molestation.

“(He) showed me his privates,” my son began.

“Oh, really,” I replied, outwardly calm. I continued to wash the dishes, petrified. Thoughts swirled. Frederick was just a kid. We had never left the house when he was over. This was nothing more than a game of doctor, I hoped. I assured my son that he had done nothing wrong, thanked him for telling me and told him he was very brave. Emboldened, he gave us details long into the night.

Little kids look up to big kids. Push them on a swing, and you’re a trusted friend. Frederick slept in my son’s room. While my wife and I were in our room, Frederick manipulated my son into thinking that molestation was some sort of game. First there was “showing.” Then touching, “tasting” and probably sodomy. There were at least three, and as many as five, opportunities. Remember, Frederick told my son each time, don’t tell anyone.

My wife and I hoped that Frederick had not done the same things to our daughter, then 2. We were wrong. Like our son, she started by giving us the least offensive information, then studied our faces. She saw pain. It’s common for very young victims to feel torn at this point. They want and need to tell, but they don’t want to hurt their parents. My daughter’s solution was to send up a different kind of trial balloon. Since the truth made us so sad, she gave us metaphors. “Frederick tore up all my stuffed animals,” she said.

It was her way of telling us that something bad had happened. But we didn’t understand her code. The statements relieved us, so her use of fantasy was reinforced. For the next six months, she talked about Frederick incessantly. There was always an element of fact, but she obscured it with enough fiction so that we didn’t get that look of hurt on our faces.

It took a therapist experienced in these matters to shake our denial. When our daughter said something like “Frederick broke all my toys,” we learned to ask calmly, “Was there anything else?”

Now we know that she was raped, sodomized and forced to perform oral sex in such fear that she didn’t once cry out. Don’t tell, he warned.

The only solace we could take was that our children trusted us enough to break their vows of silence. At last, we began to understand why our outgoing children had become sullen, why our son drew disturbing pictures of himself caught in traps, why our daughter would not sleep in her room. We could start dealing with it.

For six months now, our kids have spent Tuesday afternoons with a therapist. In the sessions, my son doesn’t talk much about Frederick. But the therapist said he’s angry and feels guilty. He thinks he should have protected his little sister and shouldn’t have let it happen to himself. He’s mad at us, too, because he doesn’t understand why we let it happen. He said he has told only his very best friend. “But,” he added in a voice that sounded years beyond 6, “he didn’t really understand what molest is.”

Neither did I. In my house of memories, there is no Frederick, no nightmares that go on night after night for months, no therapy sessions. I have written newspaper stories about disasters and personal tragedy. I have had deaths in my family. But I have never felt more pain than when my 3-year-old daughter says to me, as she often does, “Do you want to know what (Frederick) did?” I gently tell her that I know; then I hold her.

I now know that we could have done more to prevent it. We were exceedingly careful about choosing nursery schools, and we rehearsed instructions about strangers. But we never thought to warn the kids about friends. It never occurred to us that our children would be at risk in our own home, with my wife and I present.

We still tell them that most people are good. But I am far less trusting. When our friends come over, I find myself wondering whether they’re molesters. We make a point of getting to know the parents of our kids’ playmates, and when those children come over, we make sure the bedroom doors remain open.

After our son started to tell us about Frederick, we called his mother and gave her a chance to confront him, on the chance that he had an innocent explanation. He didn’t. Because she was a friend, we waited a few days before calling the police. Frederick was arrested. He pleaded guilty to the sex offense and was sentenced to probation. Months later, when we learned what he had done to our daughter, detectives rearrested him. After denying all along that he had molested my daughter, he finally confessed. The judge was less understanding the second time around and sentenced him to two weeks in juvenile hall. Frederick must see a probation officer weekly, perform community service and go to therapy. Our kids greeted the sentence with glee.

In my view, the judge issued a firm sentence. But because Frederick is a juvenile, everything about the case is confidential. (Frederick isn’t his real name.) Unlike adult sex offenders, he is not required to register with the police. And when he turns 18, he can request that his record be sealed.

Whether he will molest again is anyone’s guess. In his favor, his mother takes his problem very seriously. At his sentencing, she and I spoke for 45 minutes. Both of us were in tears. She is deeply sorry. But he’s his own man now. Like a recovering alcoholic, perhaps he can control his behavior; but he must realize he has a problem. I don’t know that he does.

Much is unknown about molestation, including how often it occurs or how often juveniles molest. Victims may not talk about it until years afterward, if at all. But as with other sex crimes, society is learning more. Experts say that most molesters were victims themselves. Authorities say there are more reports of women and teen-age girls molesting. Both findings apply in Frederick’s case. As a child, he was molested by a teen-age girl, something that emerged only during his therapy after his arrest.

To someone who doesn’t know them as we do, our children would seem fine. Our son is obsessed with Little League. He hasn’t drawn a picture of himself ensnared in a trap for some time now, although he still sleeps with his light on. Our daughter happily will demonstrate the latest steps she’s learned in ballet for anyone who asks. But while scribbling at the kitchen table awhile back, she drew what she called a picture of herself. As we sometimes do, we asked her to tell us about it. “I’m sad,” she said. Why? “Because someone hurt me,” she answered.

If anything, my wife and I are closer now. Problems common to any family seem small. Things such as job advancement are less important than stability at home and being there for our kids. The shock I felt at first is gone. But a feeling of loss remains. Because of what happened to my children, we all have been robbed of something very precious. They’ve lost some of their innocence. They’ve lost the sense that they are safe in their own home and that their parents always can protect them. They’ve lost the comforting childhood belief that bad guys are easy to spot, that villains don’t look like witches or wolves. Sometimes they look like the kid next door.