Mr. Cobb had me bend over with my hands on his desk while he gave my butt three hard licks with his paddle. The paddle stung and brought tears to my eyes, but I was angry and determined not to make the slightest sound. When it was over, Mr. Cobb held out his hand for me to shake. I gave him a malicious stare, ignored his gesture, and walked out of his office to the parking lot where I waited by Miss Carver's car.
Miss Carver never said a word to me on the drive home. When we got there, she gave me a ham sandwich along with a glass of milk and then went about her household chores as if nothing had happened. As I had done every day for two weeks, I went to my room to take a nap, so I could stay awake that night for as long as I could.
I woke up later to the sounds of the Carvers arguing in loud, angry voices. I couldn't understand all that they were saying, but I heard enough to believe that Mr. Carver hit his sister. When they called me to dinner, I saw Miss Carver's red, puffy cheek. No one said anything to me during the meal, but I looked up from my plate several times to see Mr. Carver staring at me. When I left the table to go to my room, I was scared that Mr. Carver thought I had told on him. I reasoned that if he would hit his sister, he would do even worse to me. I was afraid that he might make good on his threat.
I never went to sleep that night, and no one ever came to my room. At two o'clock in the morning, I dressed in warm clothes and crept quietly through the dark house. With every step I took, my heart thundered in my ears. I was terrified that Mr. Carver would catch me trying to escape, and I barely breathed until I was standing on the sidewalk in front of the house.
Since we passed the police station each time we went to the park, I knew where it was, and I knew I had to walk alone in the cold, dark November night for two miles to reach it. I had never walked that far in the dark, and the night sounds scared me. I imagined monsters behind every tree and bush, but none of them frightened me as much as the monster at the Carvers' house.
My face and hands were numb with cold by the time I saw the Ackers police station. I was shaking, but I would have been shaking even with the warmth of a summer night. It took all the courage a nine year-old boy could muster to walk into the station and tell them why I ran away. After I told my story, I sat alone, crying and trembling, on a metal chair in a cold room. I had given the police Mrs. Glover's name, and they promised to contact her so that she could take me back to the boys home where I would be safe.
When Sergeant Smith returned to the room with Mr. Carver, I was temporarily too afraid to move or speak, but as Mr. Carver smiled warmly at me and apologized to the officer for the trouble I caused, I jumped out of the chair and stood with the metal table between my foster father and me. The police had betrayed me. They were sending me back home with Mr. Carver, and I knew that if he hadn't already planned to kill me, that he would surely get rid of me for what I told the police.
During that visit to the police station, I discovered that state boys, especially minority kids, had a reputation for lying, stealing, and causing trouble for the small town police officers who were often uneducated in recognizing the signs of child abuse. Since Mr. Carver was a deacon and a youth leader at Sergeant Smith's church, the cop believed his story that I had threatened to tell lies about him if he punished me for my poor behavior at school.
The men forced me to leave the room with Mr. Carver's hand gripping the back of my neck. He firmly guided me towards the front door that would lead out of the station and to the street where he had parked his car. Sergeant Smith stopped at the door and said goodnight, leaving me alone to walk with Mr. Carver. Before we took the first of six concrete steps downward, his angry grip tightened painfully around my neck. Chill bumps spread over my skin, and I thought I might wet my pants.
My mind flashed back to the night when Mr. Carver caught me trying to call Sean and made me hang up before anyone at the home answered. He knew I was lying when I volunteered a phony reason for the call without being asked and that's when he promised that I would be sorry if I told anyone. I believed that if Mr. Carver got me inside his car, no one would ever see me again, and I was determined not to be a willing victim. Thinking of Sean gave me an idea.
During my last stay at the boys home, Sean had spent hours teaching me how to fight and showing me sure ways to hurt a bigger guy. Mr. Carver and I were halfway down the steps when I tried one of the moves. I suddenly dropped my weight low and away, so I could have the right angle and distance. When Mr. Carver's grip loosened, I sprang towards him, launching my right fist squarely into his crotch. He screamed a profanity, folded like a cheap tent, and fell the rest of the way down the concrete steps. I was three strides up the sidewalk before he tumbled to a stop.
With a final look over my shoulder, I ran with a speed only fear for my life could have generated. There was no way that man was catching me after I did what Sean called "shining his jewels." I ran away from the main drag with its many light poles, neon signs, and lighted store fronts, and when I stopped to catch my breath, I looked back to see that the police station was out of sight. I was in an unfamiliar neighborhood of neat little houses shaded by old oak trees. It was much darker than the area around the station and easy to jump away from the occasional streetlight to hide in someone's shrubbery.
I didn't know where to go or who to trust, but the answer found me in the form of a young man who was performing his stretching exercises before his early morning run. He noticed me first and called out to me. He was concerned to see a boy my age alone in his neighborhood at five in the morning, and I sensed that I had no reason to fear him. I trusted him enough to tell him that I needed to call my caseworker. He found Mrs. Glover's number and dialed it for me before handing me the phone. Mrs. Glover promised that she would not call Mr. Carver and that she would pick me up in thirty minutes.
Mrs. Glover took me to the hospital where I talked to a doctor who examined me. When the doctor finished, I had to repeat my story to two men from the sheriff's department. I told them about the night I woke up to find Mr. Carver in my bed, and that I was so scared that I screamed and woke up Miss Carver. I told them everything, including what happened at the police station. I spent the night in the hospital and in the morning, a psychologist talked to me before Mrs. Glover took me to the boys home.
When I think of it now, I appreciate how hard it must have been for Miss Carver to go against her brother to do the right thing. She knew more than I thought she did and voluntarily gave a sworn statement to the sheriff's department detective who arrested Mr. Carver. I'm not sure of all the terms, but I know that Mr. Carver accepted a plea deal, and it was not necessary for me to testify in court. I was glad because I never wanted to discuss the details again, and I never have.
A few days after I ran away from the Carvers' house, Mrs. Glover picked me up from the boys home and took me to see Mrs. Jenkins, a state counselor. The counselor tried a number of tactics to lead me into a discussion about Mr. Carver. She often started with mentioning my new behavior problems at the boys home, or the fact that I had been struggling with my studies in school. She would ask if I was angry, and why I had changed from a boy who never caused trouble to a boy who was often fighting. My standard answer for her was, "I don't know." If she mentioned Mr. Carver, I refused to say another word until it was time for me to leave.
Mrs. Jenkins, and any adults who knew about it, believed that Mr. Carver was the reason for my change in behavior, but he was only part of it. There were many factors, which had all affected me over a period of years. I had lost a home I loved when Mr. Abernathy died, and it hurt much worse because his wife blamed me for his death. I had trusted the police to keep me safe, only to have them give me right back to Mr. Carver.
At every open house at the boys home, visitors disrespected me. The boys home staff and many of my foster brothers treated me unfairly and verbally abused me. What I hated the most was the unrelenting ridicule that I continued to suffer at school, and the fact that it had intensified each year as my tormentors grew older and
came up with more imaginative ways to damage my self-esteem.
During my first few years of school, I never had one single friend among my classmates. In the beginning, I tried to make friends, but no one would give me a chance. My first problem was that the majority of the students were white, and their parents had done a good job teaching them to be prejudiced against kids who were different. The second issue was that the other students were reminded each day that I was a state kid. When I rode the boys home bus with the Bergeron County sign on the door, it always stopped directly in front of the main entrance to the school where the kids congregated at the beginning and end of the school day. In the cafeteria, students saw me present my free lunch pass for poor kids. Sometimes there were assignments that involved telling the class something about our homes, families, and ancestors. What was a bastard foundling supposed to say to the class?
I was often teased at school about my cheap, secondhand clothes, which seldom fit me. I wore hand-me-down shirts, jeans, and jackets donated by church families whose kids outgrew them. One of the most embarrassing incidents involving my clothes was the time when an older boy stopped me in the hall and informed me that I was wearing his old jacket. He proved it in front of other kids by pulling out my jacket collar and showing everyone where his mother had printed his last name on the label with a black laundry marker. They all had a good laugh, and that night, I used a pair of scissors and cut to shreds the only jacket I had.
The kids kept teasing me for weeks by asking me whose clothes I was wearing that day, and some of them spread a rumor that I wore used briefs with old stains. There were many days, when I had to fight back my tears at school until I could go home to my room at the boys home. There I would crawl under the covers of my bed and cry myself to sleep.
When I first came to live at the Bergeron County Junior Boys Home, I was a naive, innocent kid who tried hard to be accepted there and in school. After years of trying but failing to make people like me, I grew tired of the never-ending prejudice and abuse. After I escaped from Mr. Carver and his friends at the police station, all of the emotional damage of my short life seemed to hit me at once. I was a pissed-off kid, and I was finished with taking crap from people. I was determined that if someone hurt me, he was going to pay double. I took my new attitude with me when I left the boys home to live with yet another white foster family needing a check.
***
I was ten years old when I moved in with the Becks and their son, Nathan. I doubt that I would have loved Mr. and Mrs. Beck no matter how good they were to me because I was a very different child from the one who came to live with the Abernathy family and the Carvers. I no longer believed that if I tried hard enough, I could have a real home with a family who loved me. I no longer believed that if I were nice to other people that they would be nice to me.
When I lived with the Becks, I did my best to obey their rules, but I made no extra effort to be pleasant. I didn't try to impress them because I meant nothing to them but a state check. I overheard them when Mr. and Mrs. Beck told Nathan that they didn't intend to keep me any longer than necessary.
From the first day, I knew I would not get along with Nathan, who was a year older than I was. He acted as if I should be his grateful slave and tried to get me to do his chores and mine. He blamed me for any mess he made and anything he broke or lost. Since I was not the nice little kid that I had been in the past, I never covered for him, and I often proved to his parents that he lied to them. Sometimes the Becks punished Nathan, but just as often, they made excuses for him that they would have never made for me.
One day, when we were supposed to be going to the park, I went out the door ahead of Nathan. When I took the first of six brick steps downward, he shoved me in the back with both of his hands. I fell hard on my knees, tearing holes in my jeans and cutting myself badly enough that my blood ran to my white socks. When I looked up at Nathan, he smugly apologized for "accidently" bumping me. I knew he would tell that story to his parents, and that they would never punish him.
I charged up the steps and punched Nathan in the mouth, knocking him off the porch to the ground. I saw that his lip was split open and one of his front teeth was chipped, but I wasn't done. In a rage, I kicked him, stomped him, and then sat on his chest while I pummeled his face with blow after blow until Mr. Beck came out and pulled me off him.
Mrs. Beck took Nathan to the hospital, and Mr. Beck ordered me to go to my room and stay there until Mrs. Glover came. I don't know why he didn't call the cops when he called my caseworker, but I gave him much more to add to his complaint when he did talk to them.
After I packed my things in a shopping bag, I used the bathroom between Nathan's bedroom and mine to check the cuts on my knees. When I pulled off my jeans and saw that one of my knees had an open gash that would need stitches, I grew so angry I was shaking.
I felt like there was a stranger inside me, and he was the one who decided that I should stomp through the bathroom to Nathan's room and use my foster brother's shirts, shorts, and jeans to soak the blood from my knees. Nathan had beige-colored carpet in his room, and even though it was painful, I knee-walked across the carpet, leaving as many bloodstains as I could.
I found over $200 in allowance and gift money that Nathan had saved in his sock drawer. He would often show me his money, and brag about how much he had. I tore all the bills to shreds and waved to them as I flushed them down the toilet. I broke his baseball trophies by hurling them against the wall where they gouged the sheetrock, and finally, I stood up on his bed and drained a full bladder on his comforter and pillows. I was still standing on Nathan's bed when Mr. Beck came in to stop me before I destroyed anything else. When he tried to pull me down, it didn't sound like my voice when I threatened to come back and burn down his house if he touched me.
In family court, no one was interested in hearing my side of the story. Judge Merlo never bothered to ask me anything about the incident because he already knew all he wanted to know. He believed the Becks' story that Nathan did nothing to instigate my meltdown. According to them, I went nuts after I accidently tripped over my own feet and fell down the steps.
I listened to my court-appointed lawyer and Mrs. Glover, as they explained to Judge Merlo that I was a good boy who had been experiencing anger issues because of Mr. Carver. The judge said that he was placing me on probation, and if I appeared in his court again, he would send me to juvie detention. He asked if I understood and when Mrs. Glover prodded me, I said, "Yes, sir."
I didn't fully understand what probation and juvie detention meant. No one there explained it to me, or gave me an opportunity to ask questions. I didn't know that I was close to going to juvenile prison until I spoke with Sean, who told me that I had to learn to control my temper and walk away from trouble.
I went back to living at the boys home, and my individual counseling sessions with Mrs. Jenkins were increased to twice a week. Once a week, I attended a group counseling session at the mental health center where, if they were in the mood, pissed-off kids discussed their feelings. Usually, they just misbehaved while the old counselor kept looking at his watch. It wasn't unusual for him to have to break up a fight or two, or call security for the incidents he couldn't handle. I hated going there where most of the kids were crazier than I was.
I remember one particular two-hour long group counseling session because of what occurred that afternoon in the restroom during the break at the halfway point. I was washing my hands at the sink, when I heard Corey Boyce, a black kid from the group enter the room. Corey, who was about my age, but smaller, never stopped talking in the sessions or during the breaks. He was obnoxious and always making a smartass remark to one of us. I had already told him twice not to speak to me.
Corey stood right behind me and began talking in my ear. I hated his whiny voice, and I don't recall anything he said until he bumped into me and asked, "Are you a wetback?"
Quickly turning, I kicked Corey's legs out from under him and dragged him a
cross the tile floor to the first stall. The toilet bowl was full of dark, nasty liquid and smelled as if it hadn't been flushed for days. I held my breath for the fifteen seconds it took to dunk Corey's head in and out of the water a few times. After I washed my hands, I left the wet, sobbing boy on the restroom floor and rejoined the session. I was strangely calm when I took my seat.
To my knowledge, Corey never told anyone the truth about why he was soaked and stinking when he came out of the restroom. When the counselor saw him, the old man only glanced at his watch again.
Corey stopped coming to our group counseling, and I never saw him again.
***
On the first Sunday of October, about two and a half months before my eleventh birthday on December 19, we learned that an important man would pay us a visit during open house at the BC Junior Boys Home. In preparation, we had to clean the entire home and listen to long lectures about proper behavior. I didn't want any part of it. I didn't care about seeing the celebrity who would join the normal crowd of adults, and I hated the idea of coming downstairs just to be bored while the visitors ignored me.
Mr. Langston, the new director of the boys home after Mr. Bonner retired, was determined that all of us boys would cooperate for the VIP visit during his first open house as director. Mr. Langston was easy to anger and quick to use his paddle excessively to encourage us to follow his orders. There were strict guidelines for using corporal punishment at the boys home, but Mr. Langston made his own rules and dared us to say anything about it. As much as he hated kids, I didn't understand why he took the job.
During his first week at the boys home, Mr. Langston, a fat, middle-aged white man who constantly smelled like fish, had to come to my school to meet with my principal because of my involvement in a fight. The incident was the only time that I can remember striking someone first with no justification.
My Name Is River Blue Page 4
