Silas Dillon of Cary County

by Clifford Schrage

  I was never alone or bored here. There was too much stimulus: battles, crying, activity, shouts, laughter, people coming and going. It was a busy, noisy place even though it was only half-filled with kids. I lived here for two weeks, but those weeks passed swiftly. The young people who worked here weren’t the most loving to me, but I always ate and had my physical needs met. It was here that I finally became toilet trained. I wanted to be like Billy, one of the bigger kids (a three-year-old) here who knew how to use the toilet. The young workers who cared for us worked effectively hard to get the two-year-olds trained.

  During this particular year—like many others—there lingered a scarcity of foster homes, a need that led the agency to advertise the need to people of the island and the surrounding boroughs. Advertisements emphasized the need, the benevolence factor, the reward of personal satisfaction, and the frequent opportunity for permanent influence through permanent adoption. Monthly, monetary county assistance was rarely a motivation factor because it amounted to only less than a dollar an hour on a twenty-four hour a day basis.

  Many of the foster homes had even more than three foster children lodging at a time. The ideal foster homes were hard for the agency to crack open. People—even church people—just didn’t see the need, or even care to get involved, or see it as a “calling,” or want to see. That’s just the way it was, and always had been. Oh, there was sympathy. People perfectly capable would enter, observe, think hypocritically “Someone should do something. Isn’t it sad? People need to get involved. Oh, isn’t this heartbreaking, these poor kids,” or things like this; and then they’d feel perfectly justified because they felt pity. But their affect would end there, making no difference. There was this clear, tragic avoidance—among many—this clear fear of any encroachment into their ease. This pitiful self-preservation was itself pitiable. Molly and workers like her were always angered by this, and often outspoken.

  On one afternoon in particular, it was sunny, humid, still. For some reason during that May the orphanage was full of flies, flies that I had to keep brushing from my face, perpetually buzzing about my face, always stealing, stealing moments of time in swats, brushes, and head shakes; stealing peace, order and rest, seemingly hungry for something on my and others’ skin, or just plain eager to annoy. They were useless things, parasites, noise makers, annoyance makers, time wasters.

  Molly was there that afternoon, and she was bothered by the flies and the heat. She was introducing the children to a certain couple—Mr. and Mrs. Comforti, thirty-five-year-olds, parents of two of their own—potential foster or adoptive parents. They came to possibly choose. They weren’t forced there, but neither were they there entirely voluntarily. He was a lawyer: Anthony Comforti, Counselor at Law; she stayed at home. They had a textbook house and situation. Standing in the huge playroom Molly said, “They all come from different situations, some worse than others.”

  Mrs. Comforti, with a strained expression from a tanned, golden-earringed, shiny-lipped face, said, “What’s the matter with so many parents? Why can’t they get their acts together? Why won’t they take care of their own kids?” These weren’t questions she wanted answered. They were statements. She recognized lack of responsibility.

  “I know what you mean,” Molly responded.

  “I mean all these kids—and more—just dumped on society and tax payers!” Now Mrs. Comforti was recognizing—maybe—her responsibility.

  “It’s the way it’s always been.”

  “Tst tst. So sad. And they’re so cute!”

  Many of us kids weren’t very cute.

  Attorney Comforti looked at his Rolex. He had an appointment or something. He was a law guardian for some of the kids here, and some in the foster homes. It was his job. He worked a lot at family court where Molly spent a lot of time. That’s how Molly got connected with this couple. Molly’s guess was that he was more willing to be open to taking in a child than his wife was. But beyond his occupation, this was the closest he got to these orphans, us homeless kids.

  “Oh, we’re going to talk about this, certainly,” Mrs. Comforti said, eager to leave, avoiding any pressure from Molly. She fidgeted with her fingers on her pearl necklace.

  Noticeable silence. They walked, looked into the sleeping quarters, into the big kitchen, into the dining hall.

  “We were thinking of moving out to Long Island. Might that throw a wrench into the works if we take a child?”

  “No,” said Attorney Comforti.

  “Not at all. Not at all,” said Molly. “We have a lot of homes—even Suffolk County.”

  “I told you that, honey,” the attorney said to his wife, somewhat chafed.

  She looked at him especially strained now, embarrassed.

  “Well I don’t remember Tony. This is all so much at one time. How can I remember everything about all this?”

  Molly felt awkward. She didn’t know how to back off at this point. After some hesitation, she said “Mrs. Comforti, we have a two-week program—two nights a week you can come for two hours each night. It’s an eight-hour orientation—gets potential foster parents acquainted with everything they might have to face. We create typical scenarios. We screen. You might find this is not for you. But our hope is that you might find yourself challenged and eager to help a child with your means. Some of these kids have a lot of baggage; that’s for sure—a lot of hurt and history. We aim to fit each family with the most fitting child. We put your foot into the water first. We don’t just thrust a bunch of kids on anyone at once. It could really be a rewarding challenge—for your two children as well.”

  Mrs. Comforti avoided eye contact with Molly. Molly had a way of burning through with her deep gaze. It was obvious that this lady was hedging. Molly could pick that up now having a few months of experience with people.

  The Comfortis looked at each other. Couples have a way of reading and communicating volumes to one another through subtle glances.

  “We’re going to talk about this Molly,” the attorney said.

  Mrs. Comforti said, “You have an appointment don’t you, honey?” She was eager to get out, away from Molly, us troubled kids, the persuading and dissuading air there, and all the flies. To her there was something very unrefined, even un-American about all of this talk of taking in children. She had the perfect family. A special, distressed child as an addition—even temporary—might rob them of all they’d worked toward. What if members of their extended family found this upsetting? What if friends found this repulsive? What if vacations, visits to salons and malls were hindered? This was all too sudden, threatening the apple cart.

  Mrs. Comforti had an expression of pain on her face, like someone had just poured dirty water on her.

  “Somebody’s got to help, Mrs. Comforti. These kids need homes. None of them deserve or asked for this,” Molly said.

  “Yes, I think we know this.”

  “If you know of anyone willing, please direct them to us.” I could hear the spleen in Molly’s tone. She wanted them out, away. “Well, we’ll say goodbye now. Goodbye.” There was a sarcasm, a “shame on you” in her intonation. Molly was shooing these people away, like they were the flies she’d been waving her hands against, as though they were parasites. She wanted to get back to productive work. She was committed, and it showed. She’d thought the Comfortis were beautiful trout, a fine catch, parents for one or some of us, but they turned out to be unavailing, fruitless.

  As they exited, Molly griped to one of the child care workers, “I got better things to do than sweeten stuck up snobs! What’s the matter with people?”

  “Well at least they came. Farther than most people get. I guess they can’t be bothered.”

  “Who knows, maybe they’ll be back. Out of our hands. Another possible is coming at four. We’ll see if they show, then I have to make some visits.”

  A few sets of possible parents visited that day, wasting time, not committing. They buzzed around the orphanage like flies.

  The flies buzz
ed the rest of that day. The warm sun shined over Cary Island until the evening made its descent into darkness. Soft zephyrs of air blew, carrying gentle scents of lilac and rose, cut grass and salty brine through our screens as we were put to bed. Two-year-old life at the orphanage for two weeks wasn’t really bad, at least for us two-year-olds who didn’t know what we didn’t have, or what we needed.

  SIX

  GULLS

  Daddy placed his gigantic right hand over my head. It felt like his fingers enfolded me, enveloping more than half of my head. His fingers were like protective wings of some big mother bird. His other hand held my shoulder and arm. His thumb across my chest was like a ping-pong paddle. Mommy Lucinda placed her soft gentle hand on my back, seated on the couch behind me with her eyes closed tightly—I imagined—as they always were when she prayed. Daddy knelt on one knee beside me on the carpet. Even kneeling he towered above me. I simply watched his inch-close, large red lips and his black, whiskered skin and his tightly shut eyes as he prayed for me. His voice was deep, buried, rich, mighty: “Lord Jesus, You have placed this child Silas into our home, giving us charge over his life.”

  He hesitated. I listened for a moment to the purring vibration of the nearby air conditioner.

  “Yes Lord. Yes Jesus,” Mommy Lucinda agreed.

  As Daddy continued I could feel his breath, even his heart, it seemed: “Lord your word welcomes us to come to you. Lord your word promises us many things Jesus. Lord we lift this child to you now.”

  At this point I expected them to lift me up. They didn’t.

  “Jesus,” Daddy continued, his voice raising, deepening: “Heal this child we ask. Place Your mighty hand upon this child! Let him breathe, Lord! Open his lungs! Jesus, we present this child to You. You’ve created this child! You’ve breathed the breath of life into him, now help him respire, Jesus!”

  I could hear my own belated wheezing between his sentences.

  Mommy prayed aloud now: “Dear Jesus, we again dedicate this child to You. Cause him to grow up in You, Lord!”

  Daddy would add, “Yes, Lord! Amen, Jesus,” repeatedly while Mommy led the praying.

  “Make him a man of God, Jesus. Protect him. Keep him we pray. Keep him from the evil one. Surround him with Your angels! Swing open gates for this child, Lord”

  At this point I had an itch on my back, and I tried to reach it from over my shoulder. I squirmed, twisting. “Itchy,” I said.

  Mommy Lucinda felt my wriggling, and while she closed the praying, saying, “Thank You for hearing us, Jesus! Thank You for the cross where You died for us, Jesus,” she thoroughly scratched my back with her long, lovely nails, orbiting her smooth brown hands. She scratched and scratched, and it was satisfying ecstasy for me. Then she turned me around and hugged me, pressing my head close against her neck, kissing my head.

  Daddy rose to his height—way up by the ceiling—five inches more than six feet. He’d played basketball in college, and was quite good at it. He pulled my nebulizer from the hall closet, plugged it in, poured a measure of medicine into the nebulizer reservoir from a dropper, and delicately placed the mouthpiece over my nose and mouth, strapping the elastic band around the back of my head, and then he turned the machine on. Vapors discharged, slowly emanating. Vapors formulated to alleviate asthma such as mine puffed up, floating. Remedying mist to assuage grim asthma—caused from my mother’s heavy smoking while she’d carried me in her womb—evaporated into my lungs and into the air. I breathed, rested, cooperated. I don’t know how or why this cropped up, but I was diagnosed with this one night last year as I couldn’t breathe, when I was four.

  Mommy inserted a video tape so I could watch a cartoon as I sat, allowing the medicine to work. The air conditioner’s purring and the nebulizer’s lulled murmur were muted by the voluble varied sounds from the television.

  “Comfortable Silas?” Daddy said with his hearty voice.

  I nodded, eyes fixed on the television. For half an hour I sat—watching—immersed in the simple plotline of the show, breathing, widening my airways, immersed in the regenerating vapors and as happy as a five-year-old could be.

  Molly had found me this place, these people—one of these rare, marvelous foster homes—after I’d waited at the orphanage. For three years my foster family had treated me like one of their own. They only had one other—a ten-year-old, Justin. Their name was Sparks: Max and Lucinda Sparks, Pastor and Mrs. Sparks. Yes, Daddy was a minister, a Pentecostal minister.

  They wanted to adopt me, especially now since I’d been with them for more than three years, right into this hot July. What held up any adoption proceedings was the law—the law that provided rights—extended rights—to my Mommy (Maureen) who was holding on, who—because she seemingly made efforts to improve, because she was in a special unhealthy category—had rights, who because she had been making some faintly potent efforts toward rehabilitation, had acquired some forbearance from the courts, even after the mistakes she’d made. What averted any adoption was the dawdling of the courts combined with the loitering of the New Blossom agency and the hesitation of Judge Clement.

  The Sparks lived here on Cary Island right beside the little church he pastored in. I had a real daddy whom I idolized and a real mommy whom I loved to be near. These three years were so agreeably pleasant, like Joseph of old in his naming his firstborn Manasseh, I seemed to have forgotten all my former anguish. Or maybe it was because I was only five.

  Justin was the best big brother any five-year-old could have. He always took me places with him, even when he was amused with another ten-year-old friend of his. He took me fishing and swimming at the nearby docks and beach by the bay in the summer. He pulled me around on his sled on snowy winter mornings. He taught me how to swing a stickball bat and play handball. He read books to me—like the children’s Bible. He made me laugh. Sometimes I got on his nerves of course, and he’d get very angry and frustrated, wanting to be away from me; but generally he was patient, untiring, unruffled. He sort of liked being a big brother, having a brother, I guess.

  Justin was very protective of me. If I’d do something wrong in the house, he’d cover for me, prevaricate for me, protect me. If there was something on my plate that I hated to eat, he’d eat it for me; or if he didn’t like it either, he’d furtively dump it into the garbage so that I wouldn’t be denied dessert later before bedtime.

  One time we were in the bathroom and he was showing me how to do pull-ups on the towel rack, which was made of porcelain—adhered amid porcelain tiles. He’d been taking fitness tests in gym class that week, so there was this enchantment and immersion in this at home as well, manifested in standing broad jumps in the hallway, sprints with his watch as a pretend stop-watch on the side-walk, and sit-ups by the television. Anyway, I had to participate too. I was hanging from the towel rack in the bathroom: “Stretch your arms down all the way! All the way!” he said, teaching. “Now pull! Pull up! Pull your chin over the bar, all the way! That a boy! That a boy! You can do it! I knew you could!” He was imitating his gym teacher—Mr. Thew—a young gym teacher whom he’d idolized. As I was doing this, luxuriating in Justin’s Let’s play school, suddenly everything came tumbling down, crashing down, shattering down in a loud breaking and clattering. It was an avalanche in tiles—half the wall! The adherent grout provoked the domino effect. There was this cloud of grout dust; this still pile of tiles, mostly broken; this sorrowful, dull incredulity in the air between us; this panicked, frenzied stare—my eyes to his, his to mine; this disturbing scramble in Justin’s thinking for a fiction for Mommy. Our ears rang. It was actually very resounding. From downstairs, it must’ve sounded like the whole upstairs of the house caved in, imploding.

  Mommy Lucinda came running up the stairs. Pausing at the top of the landing, listening, curious. “Justin?” she said inquisitively, investigatively, a little frightened about what she might find.

  With hesitation: “Yeah, Mom,” Justin responded with a forced casualness in his tone, with this s
trained “everything’s normal here” craftiness in his whole manner. I stood silently awaiting.

  “Where are you?”

  Halting. “In the bathroom.”

  “What was that noise?”

  I could hear her walking this way.

  “What noise?” Nobody laughed at his question. Justin hurriedly snatched up the towel from under the rubble on the floor, and he quickly took the towel bar from my fists; I yielded.

  “That loud crash,” she said demandingly loud, walking, verging upon us.

  “Oh that.”

  Mommy Lucinda entered. “Oh my,” she said, covering her mouth, eyes wide.

  There was silence for what seemed a long time. We both stared at Mommy, fearful, thinking of Daddy. Her eyes gaped at the mess; they rose up at me, then higher at Justin. Her hand remained over her mouth, as though this helped her think.

  I looked at Justin. His black skin seemed to look more effulgent, as though he blushed. He looked at me, and I imagine my burnished complexion changed—maybe paler—as well.

  “Justin, what happened? Are you hurt? Are you hurt Silas?”

  “No Mommy.”

  “Justin what are you two doing up here.”

  I never would have gotten in trouble for this, because Justin brought this all about, spurring me, pretending I was his gym student. But at ten, he actually thought I’d be scolded since I was the towel bar gymnast, since my body was the one that physically hung from the fixture. Perhaps he believed he would have received some of the blame since he was older and knew better and didn’t steer me away from this; but still he didn’t want me to catch any castigation from this. I know this. He loved me. He really had this protective, sheltering nature about him. She waited for a response. He balked.

  Finally he declared, “I just dried my hands, Mom.”

  Her look was one he couldn’t read.