He was my favorite uncle.  Now he was dead.

Mother sat beside me, crying quietly.  Of the six brothers, he was her favorite.  Witty, creative, resourceful, loving, with an easy-going temperament not expected from a fiery redhead.  He had been a gifted student, a professional baseball player, a remarkably successful businessman.

Although they lived 30 miles away, we spent more time with his family than with any of mama's other siblings.  They had a lot more money than we did and lived in a huge home with a swimming pool -- you had to be "rich" to live like that in the 1950s -- but never made my father, a day laborer, feel inadequate or low class or poor, even though daddy felt all of those things with others.

When his family came for a visit, he always phoned right before he left the house because if I knew exactly when he left, I would have his favorite cookies cooling on the counter when he arrived.  He would always express surprise, but we all knew he was expecting them.

I remember the photos of our vacation trips together, before my cousin and I had siblings.  We were thirteen months apart in age, more like brother and sister than cousins.  My aunt was a paradox:  a brilliant scientist who designed the fuel system for the Gemini space mission, but who had virtually no common sense. Her misdeeds were so common that when you did something illogical or stupid, the family said that you "pulled a Pauline".  But we loved her, and so did Uncle Jack.

He was my favorite uncle, and now we were preparing to bury him.  As I sat with my arm around mother's shoulders, I wondered what was going through her mind.  When I was older, she shared that her brother had some faults she'd never suspected -- other women, alcohol, dubious business associations.  But she loved him, wrinkles and all.

He was my favorite uncle.  And when I was 14, he molested me.

It's burned in my mind, over 40 years later.  I never told anyone, but I remember everything.

It was spring, when Texas days start out cool, move to warm, and then return to cool in the evening.  Uncle Jack's family had been over all day, and in the late afternoon, more of my aunts and uncles and cousins arrived for a picnic in our back yard.  We'd cooked hot dogs and hamburgers, and as the air began to cool, everyone began to move inside.

We'd been playing with new puppies, climbing on the swingset, playing tag in the alley.  I was wearing a tattered red sweater pulled over my sleeveless cotton blouse and black shorts.   My hair was pulled back from my face into a messy ponytail tied with a piece of yellow string.  I was a tomboy, completely oblivious to how I looked, and I didn't mind getting dirty and sweaty when I played.  But I had a woman's body:  large pendulous breasts with fat, round nipples, tiny waist, slim hips, shapely calves.

When everyone starting clearing the card tables and carrying the chairs into the house, mama gave me the croquet set to put in the shed at the back of the garage.  As I stepped into the darkened room, the dirt floor felt cool on my still-bare feet.

I thought everyone else was already in the house, but suddenly he was behind me, enveloping me in a hug.  We were a demonstrative, physical family -- bear hugs and kisses on the lips were not unusual, not only with my parents and my sister, but even with aunts, uncles and cousins.  But this felt different.

In a heartbeat, his right hand was grasping my breast and his left hand captured my crotch.  He buried his face in my neck and pushed his body against mine.  I was frozen.  He began to caress my breast and squeeze my nipple and explore my crotch with his fingers.  He was so strong, and I was scared.

I smelled his Old Spice cologne, overpowered by sweat.  His breath was hot on my neck and smelled of onions, cabbage, beer and cigarettes.

"Oh God, oh God," he murmured into my hair as his hands worked and his hips began to grind into my butt.  I could tell his knees were bent as he crushed me toward him.  His right hand went to my waist and up under my shirt and pushed at my bra while his left hand moved down to my thigh and then upward under my shorts.   His fingers danced in places I knew they shouldn't be, caressing, probing.  "You taste so good," he whispered as he kissed and then licked my neck.  "Am I making you feel good?" he asked as his tongue moved to probe my ear.  I felt something hard against my hip and, even in my naiveté, I knew what it was.

His left hand left my crotch and moved to my waist as he began to turn me toward him.  His mouth moved from my ear to my cheek, his tongue trailed a path along my jaw to my neck and then coursed downward. When I was facing him, he put his left hand on my butt and pulled me into his crotch.  His right hand was still pushing and squeezing and keading my breast and nipple as his head and tongue moved to the top of my sweater.

It seemed like hours, but had only been moments, and when his hips began to move in circles against me, I raised my now-freed arms and pushed him away.  He was startled at the move, and looked in my eyes, his face only inches from mine.

"If you ever touch me again," I hissed softly through clenched teeth, "I'll tell mama and she'll tell daddy and he'll kill you!"

His hands dropped, his face turned sheet-white, and he turned and walked out of the shop.

It was over as quickly as it had begun.  I remember being very calm.  I went into the house and began cleaning up the dishes.  Everyone began to leave soon after.  No one seemed to notice that anything was awry, and in my youthful innocence, I decided it was over and rarely revisited it in my mind.

He never touched me again.  I never told anyone because I didn't need to.  I knew it would break mama's heart.  I also that when daddy killed her brother, he would go to prison.  It just wasn't worth it.

As an adult, I heard mama say that Uncle Jack had a "problem with sex", but she never suspected what happened.  He had numerous affairs, and after Aunt Pauline divorced him, I learned he was operating a brothel in a nearby suburb.  He married one of his lovers and continued to drink.  It wasn't too long before he began to suffer the effects of his life.  He was a sick, broken man, ravaged by alcoholism.  After his second wife left him to die, he moved back in with Aunt Pauline, the ultimate good woman, and she took care of him until he died.  It was the last  straw to his four children, and they left his life forever.  He had endured terrible physical pain and had driven his children and the rest of his family away.  Only Aunt Pauline stood beside him.

He was my favorite uncle, and now he was dead.  And I didn't care.