Not testifying against him, what can that mean . . .

They would not forgive you, for refusing to testify. For refusing to remember. But I did not want to remember.

The sickness had entered you like a parasite seeking warm moist cavities in which to take hold, thrive. As Mr. Sandman seeped into you without your knowing and this not-knowing allowed his spirit to invade you utterly.

And then one day. Irma approaches you shyly. Tight-lipped and anxious asking if Oscar has “touched” you—ever?

Very painful for your aunt to ask such a question. Mortifying.

Irma’s voice quavers, she has taken your (cold, unresponsive) hand in hers as you shake your head mutely No.

No? He hasn’t touched you? Or—threatened to touch you?

You too are embarrassed. Resentful of being questioned. It is like Ms. Herne questioning you, and the therapist, and the (female) police officers insisting they have only your best interests at heart but will use any and all evidence they can gather from you against you.

But no. You will not tell your tremulous aunt that her husband Oscar has fallen into the habit of touching, not you, but himself, in your presence. At first this too seemed accidental, unintentional, a kind of rough scratching in the region of the groin, nothing extensive or (apparently) deliberate. As if casually but then, gradually, with unmistakable crudeness when you have no choice but to pass closely by the man. And the simpering sounds emitted from his mouth—Dirty girl! Vio-let.

As if Sandman has passed you to him. And yet, your uncle expressed great shock and great disgust over the issue of Arnold Sandman, in his reticent way he’d been outraged. Aunt Irma wrung her hands, Aunt Irma murmured poor child, poor girl while Uncle Oscar muttered pervert! Should be locked up and the key thrown away.

You will not tell Irma how a few days ago Oscar was standing outside your room, early in the morning, before you left for school, before he left for work. Belt undone, trousers open. So taken by surprise your eyes shifted downward shocked, dismayed, unable to look away. For you’d never glimpsed Mr. Sandman in any state of undress not even his shirt partly unbuttoned. Not even with hair lank and limp and damp falling onto his forehead. Not once.

And then—shocked to hear yourself laugh. Wild snort of laughter.

“Oh what’s that? You’ve got to be kidding.”

Instantly your uncle ceased the obscene motions he’d been making with his hand, touching himself. Flinched away from your jeering eyes, mortified.

So quickly it happened. You would never have expected this: a thrill of power. That the man could be assaulted in a way particular to him, his maleness.

You realize: the man’s power over you is to intimidate you, to make you ashamed. But your power over him is the power of laughter.