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After we had exchanged courtesies, I accepted his invitation to be a guest at his motel for a few days.“We’ll put you in one of the rooms that doesn’t provide me with viewing privileges,” he said, with a lighthearted grin.His parents, hardworking German-Americans, had had a farm.He described them as kindhearted people who would do anything for him—“except discuss sex.” Every morning, he said, his mother got dressed in her closet, and he never witnessed either of his parents exhibiting an interest in sex.When he was a child, his mother’s married sister, Katheryn, lived in the farmhouse next door.At the age of nine, he said, he started watching her. She often walked around nude in her bedroom at night with the shutters open, and he would peer in from below the windowsill—“a moth drawn to her flame”—for an hour or so every evening.
He had neatly trimmed dark hair, and, behind horn-rimmed glasses, he projected a friendly expression befitting an innkeeper.
He left a message on my answering machine a few days later, saying that he would meet me at the airport baggage claim.
Two weeks later, when I approached the luggage carrousel, I spotted a man holding out his hand and smiling.
He removed from his pocket a folded piece of stationery and handed it to me.
“I hope you’ll not mind reading and signing this,” he said.