With a Tilt of My Hat Read online

  WITH A TILT OF MY HAT

  by

  Mary Matuskey

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  Published by

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC

  Copyright © 2017 by Mary Matuskey

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-68299-237-1

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Kelly Martin

  Editor:Dave Field

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To the four men in my life; husband Randy, and sons Nicholas, Bryan, and David, whom I love. Thank you for supporting me in positive ways, even during my crazy times.

  Chapter 1

  The captivating environment of Washington’s nature with its rich forest and ocean waters generated peace in me. I delved into a realm of my own quietness in the solitude of reading philosophy, and my passion for jazz music. When my parents gave me a guitar for my fourteenth birthday, I was elated, and quickly became lost in a musical trance. My dad told me, “Steven, because you have such a desire for music, along with respectfulness towards songwriters, I knew this instrument would be perfect for you.”

  I listened, learned and played the old songs of gypsy jazz: the famous Django. The creative sounds of an epic era of jazz and swing, as the great Django created a legendary gift to society with his creation of Gypsy Jazz Music. The tradition of gypsy jazz was said to be the passing down of knowledge from older generations, listening, learning, and playing without written music.

  The gypsy jazz ensemble consisted of an acoustic guitar, blending with cello, a violin, and the soft beating of drums. I practiced every day; my music improved greatly in a short time. I felt proud of myself and, as my confidence grew, I reached out and performed with a few other musicians.

  Once that took hold, I played gigs at local parties, and at the age of seventeen I performed at my first night club in Seattle. My parents attended: they sat center stage; their support was overwhelming. Mom started the tip jar with a twenty-dollar bill. They had been jazz fans for many decades; together they enjoyed several concerts in the Seattle area. My music had its own flare with a blend of old gypsy swing and new age Jazz.

  In the nightclub, the dark colored walls showed an ambience brought on by dim lights, recessed into the ceiling and floor. The walls were covered in framed prints of jazz artists along with several signed photographs of famous musicians. But one of the coolest icons was the cigar ladies, who swayed from table to table with their trays. The previous owner used cigar ladies, so the current owner decided to continue with the nostalgia. This ensured the nightclub was appreciated by its regular patrons and newcomers alike.

  Even with my shy demeanor, I performed like a professional. Those who liked it said that my slow movement when I bowed my head and held my eyes gazing downward intrigued the audience. The guitar and I became one. This sparked enthusiasm with the crowd, and at the end of my song they stood and cheered for an ovation. I lifted my head in acknowledgement, and with a small grin, repositioned myself for the last song. The night continued and the flow of jazz music dominated the audience, which was pure delight to my soul. The bartender yelled, “Last call for drinks,” but I never wanted this night to end.

  My parents worked full-time careers. My dad Leon was an engineer at Boeing Air Field; his accomplishments were outstanding. They included two patents at Boeing. While he made excellent money, he was often overworked. Nonetheless, he made it a point to spend free time to play with my brother and me. He always reassured us that we were special to him.

  I’d say that we were pretty much a normal functioning family, with very few negative issues. George was born two years prior to me. One year after his birth, mom had miscarried, a baby girl. Since I was a healthy baby safe within our family, she decided two children were perfect, so Mom had her tubes tied. She stayed home for the first four months nurturing me just as she had done when George was born.

  Her career as a registered nurse demanded an abundance of weekly hours at the hospital, which exhausted her. Therefore, at this point in her life, all she wanted was to give full attention to her children. Mom took her maternity time, vacation time, and all of the paid days to which she was entitled.

  Our family also had a second property, a vacation cabin in the woods; just beyond the tall forest of trees was a meadow of bright yellowish green grass. I recall a recent trip there with my dad and brother. We walked past the large oak tree near the path that formed to the right of us.

  Dad slowed his pace, which put him several steps behind me. My legs sprinted faster as the memory of being young erupted in me. I caught a glimpse of our cabin about thirty yards ahead. Past voices arose in my mind of my father shouting, “Steven, go get your fishing pole, the sun’s coming up.”

  Hidden amongst the tall grass, the cabin showed its dark painted panels, which had begun to show weathering. I was overtaken with warmth of emotion when I walked its grounds, even though the cabin appeared to have decayed.

  The door opened to a tiny kitchen where the light shone through the window. The fireplace stood sturdy on the main wall ready to heat the living room. A short turn down the hallway led me to the smallest of bedrooms with an adjacent bathroom. It wasn’t a very large place, but to me it was my comfortable place. It suited our family’s wants and needs. My thoughts held steady that we would be here in Washington forever. Unknown to me: today would actually be my final day here with Dad.

  George and I spent most of our childhood romping in these woods. Our mother used to join us for fishing and berry picking, but as we grew older, she stopped coming here. I don’t really understand why. However, George made a commitment with our father, indulging in the freedom that only the forest can encompass. When he turned thirteen, George felt like an awkward teenager. Dad opened a door of truthfulness for him as they held long conversations while sitting by the fireplace, forever bonding their relationship.

  The night I performed in Seattle will remain a tenacious memory in our family. Sadly, the weeks that followed the nightclub event, my dad died of a cardiac arrest at the young age of forty-six. That marked our last time together in the cabin. Dad left a legal will, of which Mom, Elizabeth, was the beneficiary of two hundred thousand dollars. George and I benefited with fifty thousand dollars each.

  However, George’s grief was uncontrollable, and his mind became lost with unsettled fears and depression. He shared with me the strength of guidance Dad had given him. George desperately needed to escape our surroundings and build a foundation for himself elsewhere. He packed his stuff and hit the road, dividing our family.

  I was eighteen years old at the time, which opened an unforeseen devastation in my own life too. I clung so much to my music, and composed one of the best jazz songs I have ever written.

  I soon delved into a dark depression and began instigating fights with others. That was hard for me t
o grasp both mentally and physically due to my passive character. I had never been in a fight, not even childhood scuffles. But anger seethed throughout me. Every day I wished George hadn’t left us, for he had been my protector.

  Chapter 2

  My head was pounding. What had been familiar was now disturbing. I closed my eyes to visualize myself, Steven, playing guitar. As acts of violence intruded on my physical body and visions of abusive mind games invaded me. This was real. It happened in my own front yard when I took out the garbage. The street was blackened by the midnight darkness, with only a couple light poles that shone a dim glow across its pavement.

  Two men took hold of my arms. I jerked my body and tried to free myself. “Why are you doing this to me? Who the hell are you guys?” I screamed in a hoarse voice due to the fact that one of them had their hand on my neck, squeezing it so hard in hopes that I would be quiet. Or to strangle me to death, I had no idea of his intentions.

  Both of them wore black ski masks along with black gloves. The taller one struck me with his fist, blood splattered on the shirt of the man who held my neck. As my head swung backwards from his blow, I brought it forward and head-banged him. He released my neck, which gave me time to kick him in the stomach. However, the force was not strong enough, we both lost balance and fell to the ground. He tackled himself on top of me and then we stumbled into the grass. I had nowhere near the physical strength that he portrayed when he slammed my shoulder blades into the ground. I cried out in excruciating pain once again when his knee pressed on my groin. I immediately shut up; tears trickled on my cheeks in embarrassment when he slapped tape over my mouth. He wrapped the gray stickiness around my entire head.

  I lay there shaking waiting for the next kick, and that’s when I saw a blue sedan parked close by. The darkness made it impossible for me to make out their faces; however, I could see the silhouette of one person in the driver’s seat. The men stood me up and dragged my beaten body to the car.

  They drove me to a rundown house, blindfolded me, stripped off my clothes and then they probed my buttocks with an object. “I listened to the noises of others while they indulged in sexual acts next to me. I became more fearful when they touched me and forced me to participate in their dungeon of penetrating putrid.”

  These actions were awful; I endured excruciating pain while at the same time the feeling was sexually stimulating. We were in a cold room, perhaps in a basement or someone’s bedroom, although I sensed no warmth or pleasant odors of this being a family home.

  Twisted emotions welled up in my mind and shook the whole of my body. The fear, rage and humiliation, overwhelmed my thoughts that I had no way of getting out. So, I closed my eyes tightly; even though I was blindfolded I still squeezed them shut. I couldn’t tell what warm hard object was inside of me, but I knew the feeling of cold hands that surrounded my waist. Someone tied a string around my penis shaft and pulled hard. The screams that came out of my mouth frightened me, for the depth of this pain was intolerable. Tears escaped my eyes.

  One man whispered, “So familiar, so much lost, needing your comfort.”

  I jerked when a tongue playfully licked my thigh. I kicked my legs but it gained me nothing. All the while, I felt sickened that this was happening to me. Two of them spoke in low voices, their disturbed words echoed in my head. I was sexually assaulted as one pushed the object faster into the crevice of my buttocks, entering my anus. I felt my skin tear. Angered at my inner quietness for I want to verbally release all the disgust that burst in my mind. Fluids oozed between my legs, semen and blood.

  Afterwards, they left me alone in a corner, still tied-up. I was cold and scared listening to their moaning sounds again. The noises bother me even more now that I have felt their empowering acts.

  Later, hours or days, I have no concept of time at this phase. I’m lost, just plain lost. They stood me up and we walked. I was placed back into the car, driven somewhere, and then thrown out onto the street. Horrified and confused.

  I was kidnapped by them often as these sexual acts of violence preyed upon me. The first abduction took place when I was hanging with some friends playing my guitar out by their swimming pool and BAM, I was grabbed from behind, held in a vice grip, blindfolded, and unable to react. No one said a word; everything went silent. Did they sneak into my friend’s yard? Had my very own friends set me up? What the hell was going on!

  Their footsteps pounded on the cement. Perhaps they were taking me into a basement because it seemed to have gotten colder with thick dampness in the air. One guy beat me with his fists, and threw me to the floor. Pain and blood struck my nerves as he cut my leg with a sharp object. He jerked my hand behind my back then tied it to my ankle, hog-style. My jeans were stripped from me and left to hang at my ankles by the knotted rope. I wrestled with him; I kicked and tossed my body from side to side as much as I possibly could. But I was bound too tight to get free. He slugged me in the kidney twice and left me alone on the floor for a few minutes. Same scenario took place again. The mental and physical horrors evaded my being. I was overwhelmed with fear, and succumbed to them.

  It seemed like an unbelievable nightmare when those men kidnapped me for a third time. Who were they? I tried to recall any altercation I may have had in the past which would justify someone wanting to provoke such an attack on me. Only one event stood out. It was a time when I purposely knocked my body into Julie Smith, which caused her to drop her backpack and flute case onto the grass. The flute case opened, which allowed part of the instrument to roll down the hill and hit a boulder. She yelled at me, cried in anger and walked toward her flute. As for myself, I just shrugged, and turned away into the schoolyard. My dad had just died and I felt so distraught with sadness. I didn’t really know Julie; it had been years since we associated with each other in band class way back in the eighth grade. She had an older sister and a younger brother who lived with her father. Nonetheless it seemed meaningless to me, I didn’t delve into others’ lives, I preferred keeping to myself.

  The last abduction happened at a nearby playground, I had just finished jamming with my friend James, a violin player. We soaked in the fresh air playing our songs while we sat under a shade tree. Everything seemed cool. James and I jammed for a crowd of passersby and a couple of kids who laughed in wonderment while they tossed a ball to their dog. Some folks even put a coin or bill into my fedora, which was prominently displayed upside down on the green grass.

  With my head hung low and my shoulders hunched over my body, hugging my guitar in a manner I liked best, I became easily lost in another era of time. I felt the enrichment of happiness, and pushed out the dark horrors of previous nights that continued to invade my mind. The sound of our jazz seemed to unite people in the park, something both of us enjoyed, so we decided to play here on a weekly basis. Ending each set with a fast swing number, we split the money, and then retreated to our separate homes. Sometimes I stayed in the park by myself. I stretched my body out on the grass, lying there hugging my guitar until the sun descended.

  However, this time I should have left with James, because when I neared the sidewalk, with no other person in sight, I was hit from behind, blindfolded, and shoved into a car. My face was smothered onto the backseat, my ankles and hands forcibly tied together and that familiar nightmare began. Dragged from the car, I was pushed into a room and thrown on the floor. Immobile with fear, I lay atop a soft blanket.

  I felt two tongues—his and his, or his and hers—I don’t know, but I became aroused.

  Those actions of their perverted pleasures only intensified my mind with guilt. They laughed at me; their sexual moans, my unwanted erection, and anguish at being tormented like this pushed me beyond insanity. I tried to stop, however my uncontrollable physical urges made it a damn nightmare as I held onto what little I had remaining.

  Then something changed, something new, I felt her softness when she glided down my shaft. Her firm breasts rubbed my chest while she kissed my neck and bit at my nipples. Toget
her I climaxed with this woman. Her sex was absolutely pleasurable, which allowed me to let my guard down and relax. Her movements had enticed me with self-satisfaction, until she blurted out in laughter and got off of me. I went from pleasure to humiliation within seconds. They left me alone for a while, I delved into deep regions of deception, and drowned in my own sadness, sickened and confused by these torturous acts.

  I was exhausted and unable to move my body; both men carried me out to the car and drove off. When the car stopped at their destination, with forcefulness, my body was heaved outside the car and I was left at the far entrance of the park where they had first abducted me. Emotionally unbalanced, I dreaded life.

  Several months passed as I dealt with the lies I had told my mother regarding the bruises, humiliation and isolation that absorbed my days. The only choice I had was to move on, so I left the state of Washington. On foot, I wandered alone, seeking internal rejuvenation. My direction: the Pacific coast with my guitar case on my back, carrying only a duffle bag filled with clothes, my laptop, and cell phone. I was gone. In more ways than one, I was gone.

  Chapter 3

  It wasn’t long before I purchased a bus ticket. The bus ride was worse than I expected. I don’t recall being surrounded by such a variety of weird people ever in my life. Nor have I smelled such foulness, which seeped along the aisle and caused vomit to swell in my throat. The chatter from everyone drove me crazy, I wanted to scream out loud—just stop these damn noises! Busy children stood on their seats, while an older man in the backseat grew anxious and shouted, “Let me off, and get me out of here!” Shifting in my seat, I turned to face him. “Hey, sit down now. Look out the window and enjoy the nature. It’s a safe bus, so just enjoy the journey, got it man?”

  The old man nodded, then quietly looked out his window.

  A teenager with tattoos sat across from me mumbling, “Damn strings,” while he fidgeted his hand. He wiggled his fingers and tried to move the pretend strings he thought were there. However there were no strings.