I was jealous of Richie, a boy who bragged every day about all the things his parents bought him. That particular day, he was showing off his new clothes and I lost it. He was trying to impress a group of boys, including me, and with no warning, I punched his face. I was completely in the wrong, and I never offered any excuse, but at the time, I didn't have a single pair of briefs without a hole in them. I took a paddling from the principal and rode home with Mr. Langston since the school day was almost over.
Mr. Langston was furious that I had "purposely" interrupted his important schedule of sitting on his fat ass except for his occasional walks around the home to scream at the boys. He cursed me all the way to the boys home driveway where he parked his car and dragged me by my arm to his office. He paddled me again, but I didn't protest because I thought I deserved more punishment. If Ritchie had hit me first or purposely provoked me, it would have been different.
Mr. Langston placed me on his permanent shit list and never missed an opportunity to yell at me or embarrass me. He blamed me for any phantom infraction he could imagine. After watching how he treated the other mixed and minority kids, I wasn't surprised to learn that it was much more than my behavior that he disliked.
The second time that Mr. Langston decided he would paddle me was for fighting in the home with another boy who was two years older than I was. I didn't think it was fair for him to punish me since Danny, the older white kid, started the fight, but the man disliked me and Danny was his favorite color.
It was Danny's first time in foster care, and like most boys, he was pissed with his new life in the boys home. The state took him away from his mother, who was a drug addict, unfit to care for him. Since he had no other family member who could take him, the state sent him to the boys home. His caseworker and a cop brought him to the home, and he didn't calm down until the cop threatened to throw him in jail for the night.
Mr. Langston assigned Danny and me the nasty job of cleaning the downstairs bathroom for the important visit, and it was another reason for the new kid to be upset. It was the first time that I had any close contact with him, and he didn't know me. If he had, he would have never shoved me and then punched me in the back. When I turned to face him, I sprayed disinfectant in his face, and while he couldn't see, I beat the snot out of him. When Mr. Johnson, one of the staff, and Sean walked into the bathroom, I was still kicking Danny, who was curled in a ball on the floor.
Sean Kelley, at the age of sixteen, was old enough to live at the senior boys home, but he was still living at the junior home with me. The home's budget was very tight, and since Sean was good with the younger boys, it was much cheaper to pay him minimum wage to work there as a part-time helper than it was to pay another adult staff member.
Sean did his best to convince Mr. Langston that I was only defending myself, but the man told him to shut up and find some work to do. When Sean was hesitant to leave us, Mr. Langston threatened to fire him and move him out of the home.
I was pissed that Mr. Langston was going to punish me for defending myself, and since he was going to paddle me anyway, I called him to his face what the other boys did behind his back. With him dragging me to his office, I yelled loudly enough for all the boys to hear me call him "a fat-assed, fishy faggot."
Mr. Langston held me and paddled me, stopping every few whacks to see if I was ready to apologize. I told him that I would apologize when he stopped smelling like dead fish, and he kept beating me until he was sweating and gasping. I couldn't stop my tears, but I never begged him to quit, and I sure as hell didn't apologize. He only stopped because he was exhausted and struggling to catch his breath. I wanted to kill him.
When he eased his grip, I scrambled away from him and yelled, "Fuck you, fish breath!" Mr. Langston's anger inspired him to chase me one more time around the first floor of the boys home until I surprised him by ducking into his office. I had noticed that his key ring was missing from his belt. Inside his office, I locked the door and grinned when I saw the keys on his desk. He cursed me and pounded on the door, but I ignored him. Next to his keys I saw plans he was making with a local TV station to cover the big visit.
When I saw the station's phone number, I remembered Sean saying that someone should report Mr. Langston, and it gave me an idea. I wasn't sure exactly what the state policy was for disciplining us boys, but I knew that it wasn't what Mr. Langston did. I called the station and told a woman that I was trapped in the boys home office, and I was afraid Mr. Langston was going to kill me. She heard him yelling and beating on the door, and I think that's what convinced her that there might be a good story at the boys home for the local evening news.
It surprised me to learn how fast an investigative reporter could react to a call. The reporter and a cameraman arrived at the boys home in less than fifteen minutes. They entered the reception area, just in time to look down the hall and see Mr. Langston trying to take apart the door lock to his office. I found out later that Sean was so afraid for me that he notified the police who arrived a few minutes after the news crew.
I couldn't see Mr. Langston's face when he saw his unexpected guests, but Sean told me that his expression was priceless. I heard him as he attempted to steer the news crew away from his office, but the woman reporter stubbornly kept redirecting the conversation to what he was hiding.
I had already decided that I would hurt Mr. Langston worse than he did me, and while I listened to him bullshit the reporter, I got the idea to give everyone a better show when I eventually had to come out of the office. It hurt like hell, but I socked myself in the face several times until I had the beginnings of some bruises, a cut lip, and a bloody nose that dripped blood onto my white tee shirt.
I heard a knock on the door, and one of the cops asked me to unlock it. I told him I was afraid that Mr. Langston would beat me again. I even cried loudly, telling the cop how scared I was. Finally, I opened the door, and it was hard not to grin when I saw the Latino cop. When he looked at me, his jaw tightened, and he asked if I was hurt anywhere besides my face. I volunteered to show him my backside, and he asked his partner to come in the room. I dropped my pants and boxers and pulled up my shirt. They saw the red welts on my back, buttocks, and thighs, and I knew from their muttering between each other that Mr. Langston was in trouble.
The Latino cop nodded his head towards the hall where Mr. Langston was and then spoke to his partner. "That son of a bitch might not make it to the station." I had to fight to keep from smiling.
Mr. Langston was immediately suspended after his arrest, and I felt victorious for one of the few time in my childhood. During the following investigation by the state, the boys of color complained of slaps to the face, twisted arms, and beatings with the paddle. Mr. Langston, who was charged and convicted of multiple counts of child abuse, was a huge story on the local news. With all the public attention focused on the case, the solicitor and judge made an example of Mr. Langston by giving him the maximum sentence allowable under state law.
I thought the celebrity visit to our open house might be canceled, but the media attention caused by Mr. Langston's arrest was an even better reason for Senator Paulson and his wife to pay us a visit. With them, there were two of his aides, a TV news crew, and a cop in plain clothes. The senator shook hands with every boy, often pausing and smiling for a picture with his arm around a kid.
He was running for reelection against a tough opponent, and with the election less than a month away in November, he needed a publicity boost. At first, I thought that it was only a visit, but he and his wife planned to show the public that they were good people by taking a foster boy home to live with them and their two sons. The Paulsons were state approved foster parents, but they had never chosen to foster a child until that day.
I noticed right away that the senator and his wife, who were both white, were polite to the white boys but focused more of their attention on the minority kids. I didn't realize at the time how far Senator Paulson was trailing in polls of the Latino communi
ty, which was small, but critical in a close election. I think that the senator had decided to take me before he ever saw me, and I think there were two reasons. One was that I looked half Latino, and the other was that I was the boy at the center of the scandal in which the boys home director was arrested. My name was kept out of the news, but all Paulson's people had to do was leak word to the Latino community that he was fostering the half Latino kid, who was abused at the boys home.
Besides the political advantage, I think Senator and Mrs. Paulson were pleased to choose me because I was white enough to be more suitable to their tastes. They spoke to me for less than five minutes before they took a break to allow their aids to set up a scene of them choosing me to be their foster son. The last scene the cameraman shot was of me standing between the smiling Paulsons. They had to shoot it over again because they forgot to tell me that I should look happy.
The Paulsons' enthusiasm for me cooled after the election, but they still did nothing to mistreat me. Overall, they were decent foster parents. I didn't see Senator Paulson very much but neither did his own sons. Mrs. Paulson was also very busy with her volunteer charity work. They had a live-in housekeeper that provided most of the care for Michael, Trevor, and me.
Michael was eleven years old, and Trevor was only five. Trevor would often bug me to play with him when his big brother ignored him, and I did because Trevor was a good kid. Michael had his good days and bad days, and I could never guess how he would act. When he was in one of his nasty moods, he often picked on Trevor, but he had the good sense not to start a fight with me. Overall, I would say that Michael and I got along most of the time.
I was satisfied to live with the Paulsons, and I had no reason to want to leave. With a stable home life, in which no one abused me or antagonized me, I was doing better with my studies, and I didn't cause any trouble at home or at school during the time that I lived with them. I knew the reason that they took me into their home, but it didn't change the fact that they were nice enough and fulfilled most of my needs. In that environment, I began to heal and gradually experience less and less of the anger that had been driving my aggressive behavior.
I decided that I didn't want to move again, and I began to try harder not to give them any reason to send me away. I even did extra chores in hopes that I would solidify my chances of remaining there until I was out of foster care. After six months, I was confident that the Paulsons would be my last foster family.
In a sense, I was right. The Paulsons were my last traditional foster family.
CHAPTER FOUR
April 1998
The first time I ever rode in a police car with the blue bubbles on top, I was eleven years old. It was a warm and humid Saturday morning in April, the kind of day in the South that could feel like the middle of summer to visitors from a cooler, dryer region of the country. My tee shirt and shorts were still damp and dirty from playing football with Michael before we climbed up to the Paulsons' tree house.
The officer, who shoved me into the backseat of the cruiser, frowned as he wiped his hand on the leg of his trousers. I noticed a wedding band on that hand when he sat on the back seat, as far away from me as he could, and again brushed his hand across his thigh. There was another officer in the front behind the wheel, and both of them looked fat in their dark blue uniforms with shiny badges and black leather belts with holsters holding real guns. The officers said very little, and they didn't smile.
After we backed out of the driveway, we rode slowly by the Paulsons' neighbors who had come running out of their homes when they heard the ambulance's siren. The grownups, all snobbish people with expensive houses, stood on the sidewalks among the blooming dogwoods and protectively held their kids against them. They stared at us from both sides of the street as if the police car were part of a parade. I waved my dirty hand to make sure they saw me in the cool car, but none of them waved back. Instead, they cut their eyes down or away. I wasn't surprised because they never allowed their kids to invite me to play in their yards, even when I promised not to go inside their houses. They were just like the parents of my classmates from school, and not even the sight of me riding in that official car would increase my worth in their eyes.
I wished that the cops would drive slowly past the park so that my classmates who played there on Saturdays could see me in the police cruiser. I had ridden in the unmarked state cars that my caseworkers drove, and I had ridden on the boys home minibus during all the times when I was between foster families. The unmarked cars and the bus were nothing special, but riding in a police car or a fire engine was cool. As a state boy who had no friends, I saw my ride that morning as an opportunity to make the regular kids jealous. By the end of the day, I would have a completely different perspective on the merits of sitting in the back of a police car.
We had just cleared the Paulsons' neighborhood when I worked up the nerve to ask the officer on the seat next to me if we could ride by the park. He turned towards me with a blank expression on his bloated face, which was covered with uneven patches of stubble. He stared at me as if he didn't quite hear my question, so I asked him again. I knew he heard me the second time because his look of disdain made me check my nose for a hanger.
"Boy, what's wrong with you? Is that all you can think about after what happened?"
I hated it when an adult answered a question with a question, especially one delivered in a smartass tone that had nothing to do with what I asked and was intended to show me what a disgusting, worthless, dumbass kid I was. It bothered me that adults with authority over me could get away with saying anything to me, no matter how wrong or rude it was. If I said the same to them, they would punish me until they taught me better than to think that my feelings mattered.
I saw the officer behind the wheel shake his head in agreement with the backseat officer. It was unanimous. I was obviously a stupid, half-breed state bastard not worth their time, but I was smart enough to take a hint. I would not speak again unless they forced me to answer a question. At eleven years old, I knew snobs and racists when I saw them, and I wasted no effort to change what they thought of me. I hoped that the Paulsons would pick me up soon.
Since the Paulsons lived in Ackers, I had moved back to the same town where I had lived with Mr. Carver before he went to prison. My stomach rolled when I saw the officers had taken me to the same police station where I sought help the night I ran away from him. The outside looked different in the daytime, but inside, it still smelled like body odor and disinfectant, and the rooms were just as cold. The temperature reminded me of the way Mr. Langston would keep his office so cold because his fat ass was always sweating. I figured that some obese cops probably had the station's thermostat set on frigid, and a quick look around the room showed me unlimited suspects.
The cops, who brought me in, dumped me with an even fatter officer at the front desk and left without saying a word to me. The desk officer asked me some questions and sent me to another officer who took my picture and fingerprints. I started to ask why and protest, but I was curious about how cops did those procedures. When he was done, he shoved me into a nearby room with yet another officer whose nametag identified him as Officer Woods. He sat behind a metal table full of clipboards, flattened boxes, and clear plastic bags. I was impressed that he was in good shape, and his uniform fit well.
"Okay, son," said Officer Woods. "Empty your pockets on the table."
"Why?" As far as I knew, the cops were just keeping me while the Paulsons were at the hospital.
"Because that's our procedure. Just do what you're told."
"Procedure for what?"
"It's the procedure when we have a kid staying with us a while. It's nothing to worry about, but I need you to cooperate." He sounded as if he was about to lose his patience.
I did what he wanted. He wrote on a pad and bagged up my chewing gum and money.
"I need your wrist watch and your shoe laces." Officer Woods stared at me until I complied. "Is that all you have on you bes
ides your clothes?"
"Yeah."
Officer Woods stood and motioned me over to the wall. "I need you to lean over, put both your hands on the wall, and spread your legs apart."
I didn't move. "That's what you do to guys you arrest. Am I arrested?"
"No, it's just our procedure to search you when you're staying with us a while." Officer Woods sounded agitated again.
I was only wearing a tight tee shirt and flimsy nylon shorts with low top tennis shoes. I had already pulled my shorts pockets out all the way, and I saw no reason for him patting me down the way I saw cops do on TV. I hated anyone touching me, and I didn't intend to cooperate.
"If you ain't arresting me, you ain't feeling me up. I want to call my caseworker." I was confused, but I was sure that I didn't like what was happening.
He raised his voice. "Son, you need to do what you're told. Now!"
I stood my ground. "I don't think so. I want to talk to my caseworker."
Officer Woods' face reddened, and when he stepped towards me, I moved to the other side of the table, keeping it between us. There was no doubt in my mind that he wanted to beat my ass, but he stepped over to the door and called for Officer Ripley to come into the room. They spoke quietly a moment, and then Officer Ripley addressed me.
"River, we won't search you. I'll just take you to a room to wait while we sort things out with your foster parents. It's just a room to keep kids safe from any bad guys we might bring in."
It made sense that they would keep me away from criminals, and I figured that I would have to leave the room eventually, so I went with Officer Ripley. On the way, I asked when I could speak to the Paulsons or my caseworker, and he swore they would be in touch with me soon.
Officer Ripley led me to a room that was empty except for a small metal table and the three chairs that surrounded it. The floor was concrete, as were the naked walls, broken only by a large, dark window in one wall. There was a single metal door, containing a small pane of glass, in another wall. The officer gently pushed me down to sit on the chair that faced the dark window and told me to wait there.
My Name Is River Blue Page 5
