Even after all these years, I wonder what went on in the mind of the man I came to call Larry the Monster. How did he justify what he did? What lies did he have to tell himself in order to live with himself? Or did he just not care?

            The first time I saw Jimmy was outside St. Ailbe Church after one of the Sunday Masses. His blond hair was short and his blue eyes twinkled like a little angel’s. The spring breeze ruffled his flowing white surplice so that he looked like a porcelain figurine, and I wanted him for my collection.
            While I was watching, a white‑clad arm dropped over his shoulder and pulled him close. Next to the arm was a cross tucked behind a wide belt of black leather. I looked up and found myself eye‑to‑eye with Sister Mark Christine, and she did not look happy.
            Instantly I knew that she knew. One of my little friends had squealed. She slowly extracted the crucifix from her waist and held it facing me. Anybody watching would think she was just adjusting her belt, but I knew better.

Chapter 1

            The last thing I remembered before falling asleep the night before was my mom saying, once again, that a paper route was a good way to learn responsibility.
            Even though it was just once a week, I hated the whole idea because I had to get up so early when it was still dark. I just knew monsters were hiding outside, waiting to get me.
            My father was already up. Soon he’d be driving the  station wagon across town to his job at American Can Company. I’d told him I was scared to go out so early in the morning.
            “You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” he’d snapped. “Get used to it.”
            I stayed in the bedroom until I heard him slam the front door on his way out. In the quiet that followed, I stood motionless, listening for those little sounds you hear when you’re alone. I peered out the window down into the gangway between our house and the Fiorios’ next door. There was enough light to see the sidewalk. I felt a little better and slowly began to dress.
            In the middle of the wooden porch floor sat a stack of newspapers, bound together with three‑quarter‑inch wire, the sharp ends still twisted tightly together. My heart sank. My father had promised to cut the wire before he left, but he must have forgotten. I knew from experience that trying to use my father’s wire cutter would be useless. I’d just turned ten, but my hands were still too small to squeeze hard enough to snap the wire.
            I stepped out on the porch and quietly closed the door behind me. The early morning chill brushed my face and curled softly around my body. The air was the only thing moving on the street, for which I was thankful. It was too early even for monsters.            I untwisted the wire by hand and managed not to cut myself.
            My route was different from my older brother’s. Joe delivered the Chicago American, which was heavy, but he only had to go to the houses of subscribers. I had to deliver the Goldblatt’s Department Store ad paper, just a few pages of newsprint but a copy had to go to every address in my delivery zone, about eight hundred copies if you included the apartment houses on Blackstone Avenue. My newspaper bag held only about seventy‑five copies, so I had to come back to the porch again and again for refills. A wagon would have made the job a lot easier but the last time I’d asked for one, I’d gotten yelled at.
            It was way too early for the apartment buildings. I had to walk the hallways to deliver, and it was still too dark for that. Someone—or something—could grab me. I’d do Blackstone last, when it was fully light outside. But Dante Avenue was a street of single‑family houses like ours, narrow pre‑World War II city houses sided with brown asphalt shingles and separated from each other by narrow gangways. I felt safer there.
            Heading left, throwing papers onto porches, I felt better because I was in the open and could run. I was fast. Even the older kids couldn't catch me once I started zigzagging.
            I turned east on Ninety‑first Street, which had only a few houses and ended on the railroad tracks. I came around the turn of the alley and—
            Oh my God! Someone was blocking the sidewalk.
            I froze. My heart raced and my breathing stuttered. The man was tall and very fat, much bigger than my father. He had short, oily black hair. He wore work clothes everyone called “factory greens.” I saw the word “Larry” sewn in white cursive writing on his shirt. He stared at me, and I noticed that one eye drooped and a scar ran from the eyelid to the top of his cheek.
             I suddenly had to go to the bathroom. I wanted to run but my legs wouldn’t move.
            The man didn't move, either.
            “What do you have? The paper?”
            I nodded.
            “What's your name?”
            “Jimmy.”
            I stuttered when I said this.
            “How old are you?”
            “Nine.”
            “What school do you go to?”
            “St. Ailbe’s.”
            “How is Sister Mark Christine?”
            I relaxed. Sister Mark had been my third‑ and fourth‑grade teacher at St. Ailbe’s. If he knew her, he must be okay.
            “Tell her Larry said hello.”
            “Okay, but I won’t see her until next year. School’s out.”
            Larry nodded. “You look thirsty. Want a pop?”
            “No, thank you. There are a lot of papers this morning. Goldblatt’s is having a big sale.”
            “Junk paper, junk store,” Larry said. “Everything they carry is cheap. It’s a waste of time delivering their ads.”
            “Yeah, and it’s too early to get up.”
            Larry nodded again.
            “Well, I’ll see ya,” he said.
            “Wouldn’t want to be ya!” I said, but only to myself.
            As I continued my deliveries, I began to feel thirsty. It was nice of him to have offered me a pop, even if it was so early in the morning.

            The next day the neighborhood guys had a pick‑up baseball game. Our field by the railroad freight yard was nothing fancy, that’s for sure; we played on black dirt, crushed coal, and weeds. Sometimes a train would roll through, so close that the ground shook and we had to call a “train delay.” The dirty white bulk of the Verson Steel mill loomed over the outfield, smoke spinning from the stacks and machinery clanging in the workyards. There were better diamonds in the area, but we were proud of ours and that pride had motivated us to get up early the previous Saturday to clean up the field and the tracks. We worked until dark—a labor of love.
            Today was the moment of truth. The team captains, Billy and Tommy, would pick  their teams for the summer. I was worried. There were more guys than positions, I was younger than some, and I was in a slump. I couldn't seem to get on base and had dropped a few easy balls.
            In my favor was the fact that Billy lived just a few houses away from me, and we were tight.
            While he was making his picks, I kept trying to catch his eye. Every now and again I did. When it came down to the last two players, there were still four of us waiting to be picked.
            “I’ll make plays, I promise,” my eyes pleaded.
            “ I'll take Jimmy,” Billy said.
            Right away I started to take practice swings with my bat. I was anxious to redeem myself, and all it would take was one good game, just a couple of hits. Then I’d earn back the respect of the rest of the team.
            White butterflies fluttered among the yellow dandelions swaying softly in the summer breeze. Across from the right field baseline, on Dante Avenue, was a neat row of bungalows; when we played evening games, the neighbors would sit on their porches, drinking Schlitz and watching the action. Even if we were kids, it was live baseball, and it was better than watching reruns on TV.
           
            “Quit daydreaming,” Billy yelled. “Your home run ain’t going to happen.”
            “What?”
            “Nobody’s ever hit one over the steel fence. It's too far. By the way you're playing right field.”
            “But nobody ever hits to right field!”
            “That’s the point. I don't have to worry about you dropping one.”
            We took the field first. I trotted out to my spot. Even though nobody ever hit to right field, I had to be ready.            
            The first batter on Tommy's team was Angelo Tratoni, one of Tommy’s buddies from the other side of Stony Island Avenue. Tall and lanky, he was always picked first. He was fast, strong, and sure‑handed. He took the first pitch, watched it go by, stepped out of the box, and patted the mud off his shoes, cool as a major leaguer. Then he surveyed the field and smiled at me.
            “He’s going your way, Jimmy,” Billy yelled.
            The second pitch came in. He swung late and the ball cracked off the bat. Yikes! It was streaking down the first base line!
            Billy screamed “Foul!” and relaxed.
            Angelo screamed “Fair!” and ran toward first base.
            I couldn't tell which it was, it was that close. Angelo rounded first and Billy squared up to block him from going to second. Most of the fights started between first and second base. I moved toward Billy in case of trouble, but he waved me off as if to say, “Go get the ball.”
            The ball sliced, hit the street, and rolled up Dante Avenue. When a ball got this far, it usually rolled under a parked car or onto one of the lawns. I scanned the area, looking for the white big leaguer. When I didn’t see it on the grass, I started checking under the cars parked on the street. Nothing there the first time; it must have rolled against a tire and I’d have to crawl along the curb. I was crouched over, looking under the third car, when I heard a voice behind me.
            “Jimmy, it rolled into Mrs. McGee's bushes.”
            I raised to my knees and looked around to see Larry, the man from the paper route, standing on the sidewalk.             Behind me the guys were screaming, “C'mon, hurry up!” Larry turned slowly, walked toward the bushes, and retrieved the ball. “Here you go,” he said as he held it out to me.
            I looked over my shoulder at the guy, who were yelling at me to hurry. I walked closer to him and took the ball from his hand.
            “Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?” he asked.
            “No.”
            “After the game, why don't you stop by for a pop?”
            “I can't,” I said, and tore back to the field, ball in hand. As I ran, I thought about the pop.
            I also wondered—had he been watching me?

            The next Wednesday the paper route came around again, and Larry was waiting for me again, offering a pop. He waited every Wednesday, always with pop, or candy, or something else I would like. Eventually, I started to trust him. He became my special friend, so special that I didn't want to share him with anyone. He was my secret.
            One Wednesday he invited me into his house to look at his fish. By now I was no longer afraid of him. I probably still had a chance to run, but I no longer thought about it. That's why he knew I’d come into the house. I didn't know he was going to hurt me. I was still free of the agony that was about to begin.
            Wednesday was paper day. The big day Larry had been preparing for. You see, Larry was a child molester. It was what he did. A painter paints, a doctor doctors, a policeman polices, and a child molester molests children. And Larry’s day for molesting was Wednesday.
            Trusting, I went inside Larry’s house with him. What happened there changed my life forever.

            So now you know my sickness. Watching, making contact, gathering information, securing trust—and when all that is achieved, I sexually assault children, reducing their thinking to a screeching tremor while their bodies shiver with pleasure.
            Sure, I know the consequences. It happened to me. Once I was young, full of promise, but there was a man who was my teacher…I’m only passing on what I learned.
            Besides, being my special friend means he gets treated better than he does at home. And I’m pretty sure he won’t tell on me.
            His mother drinks. His father works twelve hours a day in a can factory. Jimmy’s just another kid who needs someone to care about him, and that person is going to be me.
            I don’t care about the nun and her precious crucifix that she shoves in my face as if I were a vampire. She won’t be able to prove a thing! None of them can. I know. A molester has to be caught in the act or it’s too hard to prove. The child would have to testify in court and the parents don’t want to deal with it. Everyone decides to forget all about it and go home.
            Sex with a child is horrific for the child but a lot of fun for me. Kids feel a combination of trauma and pleasure and this confuses them. They think it’s all their fault. It’s evil because it shocks their psyche forever…but I want Jimmy real bad and if I put out the twinkle in his eye, too bad.
            And if there’s a chance of me getting caught, he’ll disappear and never be found.
            I think about Little Jimmy all the time. Who knows, he might like it and come back for more. That’s what I’m praying for!