The obituary read: “Wilma Rita “Billie” Myers born March 7, 1926 in Alliance, Nebraska passed away on May 5, 2014 in Crescent City, CA. She was a Del Norte County resident for 67 years.”
Every Saturday morning for years I delivered the Time-Standard to Mrs. Myers’ house in Klamath. She lived across the field from us with her husband, Vern.
When I was younger, rumors swirled around her and Judge Hopper, who live a few doors away and across the street from the Myers. I paid no mind to the stories because I never saw any evidence of any untoward behavior between the two.
About three years into the job I was attacked and sexually assaulted by a mentally ill man. At the age of 13 this caused me some confusion as to my sexuality.
Mrs. Myers always asked me in and offered me a cup of coffee, some bacon or sausage and perhaps a biscuit. Being a teenage chow-hound I accepted.
Over time we talked about all sorts of things including some personal stuff. I had grown comfortable enough to tell her about my assault and how I must have done something to have caused it.
On the Saturday morning following my 14th birthday, I knocked on her door. I heard her call out: “The doors unlocked, come in!”
The kitchen was dark and the curtains were closed in the living room which was uncharacteristic for Mrs. Myers. Once my eyes adjusted to the shadows, that’s when I saw her walking down the hallway from the back of the house.
She looked like a spirit as she moved towards me. She was wears a white translucent negligée with light pink ruffles and a pair of clear high heels adorned with pink fur on the strap.
As she drew closer, I stumbled back against the door. I had nowhere to turn to get away and by that time I wasn’t certain I wanted to escape what I believed was about to happen.
Soon her face was so close that she could have kissed me had she wanted to. Instead, she gently traced my eyes, nose, lips and neck with the tip of her nose.
Next she took both of my hands and placed them on her hips. She guided them up and down her body from her thighs to her rib cage.
I took her hand in exchange and placed it firmly on my groin. She jerked her hand away and smiled.
“Don’t you ever worry about your sexuality again,” she whispered, “You’re a one-hundred percent all-American, red-blooded male.”
I melted at that second.
Mrs. Myers turned and started back down the hall, “See you next Saturday.”