Original Blame and Shame

The man was Adam, the woman was and Eve, and the object was the fruit. 

And the feeling was a  curiosity.  And the mistake was consenting. 

We were in the bathroom -- playing with water, I suppose -- always a temptation.  To me, anyway; I was probably four.  It must have been a hot day.  Maybe my brother was there.  My sister must have been born by then but was too young to speak, too young to walk.  One less person to blame.  But definitely I was there -- and Stevie, the kid down the street, twice my age, whom my mother sometimes babysat. 

I remember the bathtub.  Put this in your hair, Stevie said, holding the tube of white toothpaste.  It'll make it white, he said -- just like Mrs. Santa Claus' hair.  Stevie must've been a good salesperson already at  the age of eight -- given that, looking back, what did that have to do with anything?  Christmas was months away.

Somehow, despite this, I  felt he had a point.  How could I resist?

Why is it, when I think back to this, I feel that  Stevie meant me harm?  Had he stayed back, laughing, while I ran for my mother with those stinging eyes ? I don't think that happened, so why do I envision it that way?

Why do I remember this at all; why do I come back to this over and over again like an anxiety dream that stands in as some kind of shorthand for shame? Was this the first betrayal in memory, the first time I would trust a stranger and end up regretting it? My body's way of remembering a future that hadn't happened but surely would? Was Stevie standing in as the spouse, the tenant, the Devil incarnate  -- all of these, all wrapped up in one?

Stevie didn't look like any of those.  He didn't look like anything.  Stevie was a blur; for me, at that moment, there was only me.  Me, running, yelling for my mother. Me, feeling stupid for what I'd gone along with; that was all. I ran, and my eyes burned.