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baby-sat me later wound up committed to a mental hospital. I think the ones who weren’t simply went undiagnosed.)
    But all of them were preferable to my parents’ favorite (translation: cheapest and most available) baby-sitter, my brother. Why would any parent think that a teenage boy, who no longer attended regular school, had already been to a psychiatrist, and had been caught smoking, drinking, and trying drugs, would be a suitable baby-sitter for a six-year-old girl? I think they thought it would teach him responsibility.
    The best explanation I can give for what happened next is this: he was really angry, and I was home. A lot of it’s a blur. I wish a whole lot more of it was. I know a lot of kids beat up their younger siblings (and, no, that’s not good for anybody either), but most of the time, they don’t break out the kitchen carving knives and demonstrate how they’re going to cut your throat if you tell anyone what they’re doing.
    It wasn’t like I didn’t try to tell my parents my brother was abusing me. It was just hard to explain how low things had really sunk, and they didn’t want to believe anything like that was even possible. Stefan was famous, after all, and could therefore do no wrong in my parents’ eyes. I’d beg them not to leave me alone with him, and they’d say, “Don’t roughhouse with your sister!” and split. And the next thing I’d hear was: “Now you’re really going to get it…”
    I soon learned to shut up. Besides, Stefan clearly had some kind of magical powers; grown-ups seemed to believe absolutely anything he told them, no matter how ludicrous, and everyone talked about how he was a genius. So when he spoke, I listened. Sometimes he didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Sometimes I’d question him; this was not a good idea. If I asked a question that he didn’t know the answer to, or was perhaps a bit too logical for his taste, he’d beat me up. I was amazed at how the adults didn’t seem to want to question him either. Did he beat them all up, too? In this environment, what happened next wasn’t really much of a surprise.
    I was six years old, and I didn’t know what sex was or where babies came from. And frankly, I hadn’t asked. But the guy who insisted he knew everything wasn’t going to let that stop him. I had seen our two dogs, Rex and my brother’s ill-treated mutt, Pork Chop, romping in the yard and as dogs will do, occasionally attempting to mate. I had asked what they were doing, and why everyone was giggling so much about it. My brother took it upon himself to enlighten me…in the garage, with the door closed.
    I was innocent, but not a moron. I demanded to know why his explanation would require me to disrobe and lie down. But his answer was the same he gave to most questions: “JUST DO IT!” Having no clue as to what would come next, I did. As weak as some of the “sexual abuse prevention” literature may be, if I had been told even as little as “Don’t let anyone touch you there,” things could have gone quite differently. But no one had ever said anything about my body belonging to me. And my brother always made it quite clear who he thought it belonged to.
    I don’t remember pain. Or fear. I remember utter confusion. And a coldness, both physical and emotional. I was naked and flat on my back on a cold, filthy steamer trunk, in a dark, cold, dirty garage. Stefan explained what he was doing, but not why. And then, it was as if I wasn’t there. There was no pretense of affection, no emotion, no talking. I was an object he’d found to serve this odd purpose. He was on top of me, and it was as if he was all alone in the world.
    Afterward, I tried as usual to question him as to exactly what the point of this activity had been. His explanation was vague, to say the least. I wasn’t sure if this now meant I was going to have a baby, give birth to a litter of puppies, or grow a second head. The only part I understood clearly was the very