To me he said, “I’m going to shove this up you again.” He ordered everyone around, even the older kids. James was 7 and a half or 8, a bloodthirsty, beautiful, relentless boy. As the parents drank cocktails in our big yard with the scent of the blooming wads of cash infusing every inch of Indiana just after WWII, the kids played up on the hill beside the schoolhouse. Arthur and Evelyn drove up from Indianapolis with James to the redbrick schoolhouse where we lived, deep in the hills north of Fort Wayne. Arthur and Evelyn were best friends with my parents, Tom and Betty. When James was 6, he was taken away from his father and given to a rich couple, Arthur and Evelyn. My mother told me the stories much later. He grew up to be the president of the United States. My first rich boy - I had fixed my eyes on his face long enough to know - was beautiful, with dark gray eyes and long golden-brown hair across his forehead. My first rich boy pulled down my underpants.
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