The next morning after I met Cathy, I waited until I heard the mail arrive, and then walked next door and looked in the mailbox to see if I could learn anything about Cathy's mother. It was only a few minutes after ten, so I wasn't worried about being seen rifling through the neighbor's mail. None of my welfare-queen neighbors would be awake yet.
Aside from the usual junk mail from payday loan companies and cheap furniture stores with easy credit that everyone in the neighborhood received, there were only two pieces of mail in the box: a letter from a law firm, and the electric bill. Both were addressed to “Rosa Baerga,” I noted the name, as well as the name of the law firm, and then walked the five blocks to the Western Union office – the only place in the neighborhood that still had a working pay phone – to call Oscar.
Oscar and I had gone to high school together. We'd also had belonged to the same Boy Scout troop. Oscar made it all the way to Eagle Scout, which is when both of us learned that we shared an attraction to little girls. Oscar's Eagle Scout project consisted of running a “Water Safety Program” at the local YMCA, during which we taught younger kids how to swim, “drown-proof,” and so forth. Oscar, of course, was in charge, and about half a dozen of us in the troop helped him out.
One day, after we were done and Oscar thought everyone except him had gone home, I realized I'd left my wristwatch in the locker room and went back to get it. I walked into the boys' locker room and caught Oscar naked in the shower with a raging hard-on, “helping” a 6-year-old girl get washed up, paying special attention to her hairless little cunny.
I guess he couldn't hear me over the sound of the water because he didn't even notice I was there until I said, “Hey, that looks like fun! Can I help?” Oscar almost jumped out of his skin, and immediately tried to play it off.
“I was only, uh, helping her get cleaned up,” he stammered, trying unsuccessfully to look nonchalant as he stepped out of the water. “She lives next door to me and, uhhh, I drive her home after class. She's like, umm, you know, an adopted little sister, right Kerri?” The naked little girl nodded and giggled, then said, “Uh-huh, Oscar's my 'dopted big brother! He takes good care of me!”
“Uh-huh,” I said as I reached out and gently stroked Oscar's boner. “You always get this excited over your little sister?” I asked with a smile. Oscar jumped at my touch. Then he looked into my eyes, and then down at the bulge in my own gym shorts, and his expression changed to one of understanding, then relief, as he realized I wasn't going to rat him out.
“Hee hee,” the little girl chimed in, “He's playing with your wee-wee like I do, Oscar!”
“Why don't you play with it now, Kerri?” I suggested as I pulled off my gym shorts and started stroking my own swollen cock.
“Okay,” Kerri said, and took hold of Oscar's cock, skillfully stroking it while I looked on pleasuring my own, until both of us shot our loads all over naked little Kerri.
“Hee hee,” she giggled, “That was fun! But now I need another shower!”
“Yes you do,” Oscar said. Then he looked at me and asked with a smile, “You want to help?” Of course I did. So both of us spent the next half hour or so making sure that Kerri would have the cleanest little cunt in the first grade when she went to school the next day.
That happened more than three decades ago, but Oscar and I have remained secret friends through the years. He chose law enforcement, eventually working his way into a leadership position in the Sex Crimes Unit; and I chose engineering, and ultimately wound up doing technical writing.We kept our friendship low-key, for obvious reasons.
I got to the Western Union office and dialed Oscar's cell number. He recognized the number and answered after only one ring. “Hey, John, what's up?” he asked.
“Can you talk?” I asked.
“Yeah, what's the matter?”
“I would appreciate your checking someone out for me,” I said, and gave him the information about Cathy's mother.
I didn't tell him why, and I certainly didn't tell him about what happened the day before. He was my friend, but we had an agreement that I wouldn't talk about anything that I did in his jurisdiction unless I needed him to try to fix something. That's also why I never called him from any of my own numbers: We wanted there to be no evidence that we were anything other than old high school chums who had drifted apart over the decades.
“No problem,” Oscar answered. “I'll get back to you later.”
I thanked Oscar and walked back home, occasionally fighting off that uneasy feeling that a pedophile always has after the first time with a new kid. I didn't think Cathy would tell; these kind of kids rarely do. Drugged-out mothers and absentee fathers make for lonely children who are desperate for any sort of affection. They're not stupid, and they know that if they open their mouths, it'll all be over.
Still, there's always that chance; and until Cathy got home from school, I couldn't be sure how she'd reacted to our games. I threw myself into my work, taking rambling discourses written by other engineers and translating them into coherent, understandable documents that others could actually read without losing half their brain cells.
Around 2:30 in the afternoon, about half an hour before Cathy would be coming home from school, my cell phone rang. I recognized the number of the pay phone in the bar by the police station.
“Hello,” I answered. Never can be too careful.
“Hi John,” Oscar replied. “I have some information for you.”
Oscar gave me the run down on Rosa Baerga. She was a legal immigrant from El Salvador who had been injured at work several years prior, had hired a lawyer who advertised heavily on the local Spanish-language radio stations, and ultimately received a workers' compensation settlement that paid her about $1,400 a month for life, plus ongoing medical care. She probably also received food stamps, a rent subsidy, and so forth, but Oscar didn't have access to that sort of information.
But he did have access to police records, and he was able to learn that about six months before I met Cathy, Rosa had been arrested for prostitution and drug possession. But the arresting officer rescinded the complaint, and no formal charges were ever filed. Oscar theorized that she probably gave the arresting office a blow job in return for being cut loose. “These things happen all the time,” he explained, “especially with non-citizens. They're all terrified of being deported, so they'll do anything to make the arrest go away.”
He didn't know anything about the law firm except that it was a storefront operation run by two recent law school grads. Probably they were trying to get her to re-open her worker's comp case, he speculated.
I thanked Oscar for his help and started considering the implications of what I'd learned about Rosa Baerga. She received enough income from the comp settlement to barely exist, but apparently she also had a drug problem and needed to supplement her income by turning tricks and possibly small-time drug dealing. She also was a non-citizen, which made her vulnerable, and therefore less likely to open her mouth if she ever stopped using drugs long enough to get suspicious about me spending time with her daughter.
On the other hand, she had been savvy enough to hire a mouthpiece when she got hurt at work, so she was at least a notch or two above the average neighborhood welfare-queen when it came to her awareness of how the court system worked. That was problematic, but probably could be managed by occasional gifts of cash, drugs, or booze, to insure that she stayed stoned as much as possible.
My thought were interrupted by the high-pitched sing-song of a child outside, in that universal melody of derision used by children all over the world:
NAAA, NAAA, NAA NAA, NAAAH!
CATHY IS A BABY!
SHE PEED HERSELF LIKE CRAZY!
I looked out the window and saw another little girl, a little older than Cathy, taunting her about having peed herself and pointing to the tell-tale wet spot on Cathy's shorts as Cathy pounded on the door to her house.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!” Cathy sobbed, but the older girl just kept pointing and laughing, as a small crowd of neighborhood kids started gathering and sharing in the taunting. I decided to intervene, opened the door, and went outside.
“Hey, what's going on here,” I asked as I approached the children.
“Cathy peed herself like a little BABY!” the older girl said. She looked like she was about eight or nine years old. Cathy looked down at her shoes, as if she was ashamed to look at me.
“Oh, is that all?” I said, “That happens to everyone sometimes. It's no big deal.”
“It never happens to ME!” the older girl taunted. “She's just a BABY!”
“Who are you?” I asked, “And how old are you?”
“My name is Jessina and I'm nine. What's it to you?”
“My name is John,” I answered. “and I live right here.” I pointed over my shoulder to my house. “I just like to know who the people in the neighborhood are. Are you in Cathy's class in school?”
“Yes, she is!” Cathy sobbed before Jessina could answer. “She got left back TWO TIMES! That's why she's nine years old and she's still in the SECOND GRADE!”
Jessina turned about ten shades of red, which secretly pleased me. But I looked at Jessina and said, “That's okay, honey. Some kids just take a little more time to get used to school. I'm sure you'll catch up and do fine.”
Jessina looked at me curiously, like she was about to say something; but then the door opened, and there stood Rosa Baerga in all her drug-addled glory. Narcotics, if I had to guess. Probably started with Oxycontin from the work injury. She had that confused, tortured look about her, like someone with a really bad pain, but who was too fucked up to know for sure what was hurting.
“What the FUCK is going on here?” She demanded, louder than I would have expected from a junkie. All the children except for Cathy ran away, but Jessina stopped at the sidewalk and watched.
“Hi,” I said, “I'm John, you're next-door neighbor,” and held out my hand. She took it, weakly, and looked more past me than at me.
“Mamita, este es el hombre que me permiti?ar su ba? Cathy said to her mother. She was telling her mother that I was the man who had let her use the bathroom. A glimmer of recognition crept into Rosa's eyes.
“Oh yeah,” Rosa muttered. “My name is Rosa. I was … sick... and sleeping... and I didn't hear her knocking,” Rosa said. “I'll make sure she don't bother you no more.”
Shit, I thought. How do I turn this one around?
“It's no bother at all,” I said. “That's what neighbors are for, after all. Cathy can come over whenever she likes, especially if you're not feeling well and you need a babysitter.”
Rosa narrowed her eyes and looked at me suspiciously.
“You got a woman?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” I replied, not knowing whether she was offering herself or merely checking on my domestic situation.
“Are you married? Or do you have a girlfriend, a ho, some kind of woman?”
“Oh,” I replied, “Not right now. My wife passed away about a year ago.” It wasn't a lie, either. I had married a Romanian woman for money. But we decided to live together, both for economic reasons and to make the marriage look legit. We even fucked a few times. But she had been killed by a drunk driver.
“Oh, okay,” Rosa said. “I won't leave my daughter with a man never had no woman,” she said. “That's not normal. But your wife died. That's different. And I'm sick right now, so you can babysit her now if you want.” She was getting fidgety, her fingers starting to tremble and make random movements, and her eyes starting to dart around aimlessly.
She needed a fix, and it showed.
“Okay, Rosa,” I said, “She can stay with me until you feel better. Just come on over and get her when you're up to it. Otherwise, she can stay all weekend if you need her to.”
“Okay,” Rosa said as she walked toward her door, getting more fidgety with every passing second. “I have to work all night... if I feel better, I mean, so maybe she can stay with you. If it's okay, I mean.” Then she closed the door without waiting for me to answer, leaving Cathy and me standing outside.
“Well, I guess we're bunking together this weekend,” I said to Cathy. “Yaaay!” she responded, and threw her hands around my waist. We walked toward my house and went inside, when she realized I had no clothes for her.
“Wait,” she said, “What am I going to wear? These clothes are all... you know...” she said.
“Don't worry about it, Cathy, I'll wash them, and then later on or tomorrow we can buy you some new clothes.”
“YAAAAY!” she said, clapping her hands as we walked through the door. “I NEVER get new clothes,” she said. “Mommy only buys me old stuff from the Salvation Army!”
I walked her upstairs to the hall bathroom and started filling the tub. She started undressing herself, as if I was her daddy rather than some stranger she just met the day before. I watched as she undressed. She was totally unashamed and unafraid, and I felt almost guilty when my cock started to stir.
“How old are you, Cathy,” I asked.
“I just turned seven,” she answered, peeling off her piss-soaked panties. When she was done, she stood up straight before me, totally naked, as if she was asking for my approval.
“You're so beautiful,” I told her as I turned off the water, and then lifted her naked body into the tub. “Let's get you washed up before you get a rash.” I spent the next hour bathing Cathy, paying special attention to her precious, pissy little cunny. Then I stood her up to rinse her off.
“Why did you wet your pants?” I asked. Cathy looked down, ashamed, and shrugged her shoulders.
“It's okay, honey. I'm not mad. I just want to know. Don't they let you use the bathroom in school when you need to?”
“Yeah,” she said, “But the bathrooms are nasty in the afternoon. They only clean them at night. And besides...” She hesitated, obviously debating whether to say what was on her mind.
“Besides what, honey?” I asked.
She looked into my eyes, and continued.
“Besides,” she said quietly, “I wanted to save it for you. I think you like watching me go pee.”
What a perceptive child. I lifted her up out of the tub, wrapped her in a towel, and began drying her off.
“It's okay,” I said. “If you really have to go pee while you're in school, then just go. We can always make more pee. We'll just give you a lot of water to drink. But don't wet your pants in school. The kids will make fun of you, like they did today.”
After she was dried off, I gave her one of my tee-shirts to wear – one that I chose because it was short enough that it barely covered her pussy. Every time she moved, I got a glimpse of her hairless charms. She wore it right up until I put her to bed.
While I was tucking her into the bed in my spare room, right before she nodded off to sleep, she told me that she was still mad at Jessina for embarrassing her. “I wish I could make her wet HER pants,” Cathy said, “Then I would make fun of her, and then we would be even.”
“Don't worry, Cathy,” I said. “We'll get even with her some day.”