THE OUTSIDER
A Novel by K’Anne Meinel
Kindle Edition
Published by:
Shadoe Publishing for
K’Anne Meinel on Kindle
Copyright © K’Anne Meinel February 2017
THE OUTSIDER
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CHAPTER ONE
“Isn’t she the most perfect baby?” cooed her mother, Louise Parker.
“Well, we could have said that about the other four too,” grinned her father, Amos Parker.
“Yes, but they weren’t our tiny surprise bundle,” she gushed, not realizing the other four were already glowering at the tiny, pink bundle in their mother’s arms. Their mother, not its. They’d already exchanged looks and were in agreement about it. This was their mother, not this unwanted usurper’s. They had all been shocked when their mother announced at her esteemed age that she was pregnant, again. It was embarrassing. It was disgusting that their parents had even engaged in…sex! In this day and age when it was legal, the two oldest had the temerity to suggest she abort it. The resounding slaps had been heard and almost felt by the other two. No mention of her getting rid of the baby was ever made again. Now, instead, they smiled half-heartedly as their mother went on and on about the tiny bundle of…joy. They exchanged looks once more and they were all in full agreement: this was not their sister, this was not any joy for them, this was an embarrassment.
Some of their resentment was understandable. Their parents had worked hard during the four teens’ lives and now that they should be enjoying a little of the fruits of their labors, perhaps not working as hard, they had a new baby to dote on. The four teens resented it and hadn’t been shy about letting their parents know. Their parents were puzzled as they felt they had doted on all their children. This surprise baby should be welcomed by all, but she was not.
Louise and Amos, although surprised to have a child so ‘late’ in their life—late thirties was considered ‘old’ at this point—were thrilled to have one more chance at being parents. Yes, they had worked hard since their first child was born seventeen years ago. The succeeding children ages fifteen, fourteen, and twelve (going on thirteen) had watched them struggle. Now Amos, a factory supervisor, had a cushier job that allowed them to have more of the luxuries in life. They owned their own home with a swimming pool in the backyard, two cars in the driveway, and were looking forward to the children going off to college. They were surprised at the vehemence and anger in their teens over the new baby, but thought, perhaps, it would fade. What really happened was the teens’ anger was ignored by the doting parents and soon faded from the adults’ memories.
Louise and Amos, sure that everyone would dote on little ‘Joy,’ soon were oblivious to the pokes, pinches, and occasional dirty diaper left on the baby too long by its older siblings. Certain that the teens would be responsible, they felt the built-in babysitters would love to take care of their little sister. They were so wrong about that. The resentment began to build even further over this spoiled little brat, as they referred to Joy. They found every reason not to watch her if they could, especially when their cheap parents refused to pay them for the duty.
“I never had toys as nice as that when I was little,” griped Stewart, twelve years older than Joy, watching as their parents bought new toys for the little girl. He failed to realize that his hand-me-downs had been lovingly taken care of by his mother who had had to make do with what little they had at the time.
“It’s all about her,” answered Patricia as she watched the little girl being coddled by her mother, taking much needed time from the fourteen-year-old.
“Of course, it’s all about her,” stated Cecilia. “It’s an infant after all. Helpless,” she dismissed.
Randall, the oldest, just ignored it. He was too much of a jock and wasn’t about to let his friends see him with an infant. They might think it was his and he’d never live that one down.
As Joy grew, she sensed the animosity of her siblings, didn’t understand it, but basked in the absolute love and attention of her doting parents. They were in awe of the little girl and her sunshiny disposition. They didn’t see, or refused to see, the little hurts and slights she endured at the hands of her much older and resentful siblings.
As Randall went off to college on his football scholarship, he didn’t feel his parents were proud of his one great achievement. Instead, he seethed at finding out they couldn’t come to the great homecoming game where he was a varsity player because little Joy was sick with the croup.
Cecilia was mortified to have to watch Joy after school every other day and her friends didn’t understand babysitting duties without pay. She resented every hour with her little sister, pretending she was not there even when she screamed to be fed or changed.
Patricia was worse. Her parents no longer used her babysitting services since the baby was found crawling on the deck and heading for the swimming pool while the now fifteen-year-old sat twisting the phone cord around her finger and twirling her hair as she spoke to her friends.
Stewart was one of the worst. He let his friends pay him to see the baby without a diaper; to touch its private areas and marvel at the smoothness. Joy had no idea their laughter and touches were anything other than something she should laugh about. Stewart only stopped when his father caught him with the money and he had to lie about where he got it. The cigarettes he had been about to purchase were long out of reach as was the money his father confiscated.
As the teens grew up, one by one, and went off to college, married, and moved away, Joy became oblivious to them. She remembered some of the hurts, felt the animosity, and ignored them. She had two loving parents who enjoyed this belated gift life had given them. She had come at a time in their lives when most people their age were slowing down, enjoying life, and even becoming grandparents. She had been aptly named and they enjoyed her greatly. Now that the others were grown, it was so much fun to enjoy some of the things they had had to miss while they made their way in this world, seeing a lot of firsts with this belated bundle of joy. They had missed so much with the others, but they weren’t going to miss them with Joy. Even when they began to have grandchildren when Joy was a mere ten years old, they didn’t give up doting on this last child of theirs. Instead, they tried to include her with their new grandchildren, getting resentment from the childrens’ parents over the preferential treatment Joy seemed to get. The grandchildren picked up on the animosity of their parents towards this aunt of theirs and emulated it.
When Joy was fourteen, her father purchased a brand new Camaro. It was a hot sports car and highly coveted by her brothers. They were incredulous that their father, who hadn’t even let them use the family station wagon when they were growing up, let the underage Joy learn to drive the stick shift machine. Their protests that she was too young fell on deaf ears. Amos was thrilled to show his daughter how to drive, forgetting that he hadn’t taught his other sons or daughters and had le
ft that up to Louise and the school. He relished showing the young teen how to put the pedal to the metal and soar with his midlife crisis machine. She had an infectious laugh and he adored this precious babe of his.
Louise couldn’t help but relish that she had so much more time for Joy. Joy was nothing like Patricia or Cecelia, not nearly as girly or clean as the older two. She was not interested in cooking or learning to make her own clothes as the others had been taught. Louise laughed at Joy’s tomboyish tendencies, certain she would outgrow them someday. When the older children complained that their teenage sister was still playing with Legos, she told them to leave her alone, defending her, telling them she would stop when she was ready and not before.
Louise made sure the young lady learned things like dancing and baking, but she also let her off a lot sooner than she would have her older sisters. After all, it was a different era. The sisters noted what an easy time Joy had of it.
Randall was furious to find his four-year-old being tended by his fourteen-year-old sister. She was carving wooden knives for them to play with under the teepee she had already constructed. She had used a folding pocket knife of their father’s that Randall had long coveted, but hadn’t been allowed to even touch. He was outraged to find that their Dad had given her this. He forbade her from ever babysitting his child again, citing that the teepee was unsafe, the child could have stabbed itself on her wooden carvings, and it was unsafe to be with her.
Trips to the zoo, the Grand Canyon, and Disney World were coveted items as the siblings grew up. With Joy, birthday celebrations were always to this type of destination. The siblings were not pleased to see their sister so indulged.
Just before Joy’s fifteen birthday tragedy struck in the form of a drunk driver. Both her parents were killed outright. They hadn’t left a will, and by the time the other four siblings divided up their parents’ things, there was nothing left for Joy…no money, no property, no nothing. None of the siblings would take their sister in and left it to social services to find her a place to live. The overworked caseworker could have gone after the Parker estate to help pay for Joy’s upkeep, but it was overlooked and the young girl was placed in the system. For the first time in her life Joy knew hardship, but not as much as her siblings hoped.
Joy had loved her parents, but she had a healthy sense of reality. She hadn’t realized she was indulged, hadn’t flaunted it, but knew to accept it gratefully. She also learned to make do when her petty siblings took her things, broke them, and then blamed her. She realized there was a harshness in life that had nothing to do with her. She hadn’t gone into her young-adult years with blinders on. She was well-liked at school, her parents loved her, but she always knew her siblings didn’t like her in the least. While it didn’t bother her anymore, she was puzzled at their resentment. It hadn’t been her fault her parents had her so late in life. They resented everything about her and in their final pettiness to her, left her abandoned to the system. Well, she wouldn’t resent them. Instead, she would forget about them. They didn’t love her, didn’t want her, and she wouldn’t want them either. Her parents had loved her enough to create a strong and wonderful young woman and she wouldn’t sully her memory of them by dwelling on what her siblings had done to her.
Joy was shocked to find the suitcase and backpack of belongings she brought into the system was soon rifled through and most of her things stolen. Other foster children, foster parents, and people who considered themselves do-gooders, unknowingly made things worse for the now parentless child. Joy’s age was against her; at fifteen, many thought of her as an adult. Some of the other foster children treated her worse than her siblings, if that were possible. The ‘system’ failed most foster children. Some ended up in homes so bad that to speak of it was to have someone upset at them over their income being jeopardized. The ‘system’ did not work on so many levels it was laughable. Joy was a victim of this system. She’d gone from loving and caring parents to no one caring at all. Even her overworked social worker, who attempted to pretend she cared, failed miserably. She had so many children on her roster that this self-possessed and intelligent girl wasn’t about to ruin her own little system within the system. She told Joy where to go and what to do, and if the ‘child’ didn’t like it, that was too bad. She had no choice. Joy’s complaints fell on deaf ears, so she stopped making them. Instead, she fought fiercely for the few possessions she was able to keep of her own—her pictures of her parents and her life before this tragedy. She earned a reputation for being a troublemaker and got shuffled from house to house. Not all of them were bad, but by the time Joy was sixteen she’d been in several and had gone to so many schools, she was falling behind.
Then came the final home she was put in. Her social worker told her this was the last one and she couldn’t help her anymore if she got in trouble at this one; she lied in an attempt to control this incorrigible teen. She didn’t look too closely at the couple who had four other teens living with them…all girls. Joy would learn that first night that women were nothing more than chattel in this house; they were subservient nothings, meant to be men’s playthings. Her new ‘stepfather’ threatened her with a belt if she didn’t ‘obey’ him. He attempted to claim his ‘rights’ the second week she was there. The only reason she hadn’t left the first week was he locked her in her room, a room with no windows. She was not allowed to go to school. At sixteen, that was enough ‘schoolin’ as he told her. She should stay home, clean, and take care of him like the others. When he tried to have a sexual relationship with her, she was horrified and pretended she had her period. That night, she dropped her backpack containing her family pictures out a bathroom window and nearly broke her neck when she climbed out too. They never saw her again.
Joy had changed a lot since the night her parents died. She had known the delight of an almost idyllic childhood. She hadn’t been oblivious to her siblings’ hatred, she had, however learned to be inured to it. It had helped her survive the nearly two years in the foster care system. This last home would have been a nightmare had she come to it sooner, but Joy was made of hearty stock. She couldn’t help the others in this home, but she could get herself out of it and she did not look back. She knew a long-haired blonde would be easy to spot on the streets and victimized, so she spent some time with father’s knife in a gas station and hacked away at her hair until it was spiky and uneven. She looked like a hooligan. She also took some grease and made herself look dirty…after a few weeks on the street, the effect was no longer fake. She bit off all her nails and rubbed the grease around them. That first night she slept in an alleyway under a box, her ears tuned to any sound. She was lucky no one saw her that night.
“Hey, punk,” someone called to her, but she ignored them as she trod along, learning the streets, going deeper into the core.
“Hey, you! I’m talkin’ to you!” another voice called and she hurried along, her head down, ignoring them and minding her own business. She kept her head elevated just enough that she could see out of the corners of her eyes and keep a lookout, always on the lookout for a way out so they wouldn’t catch her.
She ran out of money within three days. Never having much, her foster care had shown her that to try and keep it was foolish. She hadn’t thought to steal money from her foster families and trying to get a job was useless as they wanted a social security card and other identification. She thought about hookin’, but knew that was a no-win job. While pimps tried to talk her into it, intimidate her into it—she still had a softness they could see below the dirt—she was careful how close she got to them. She’d heard stories of girls getting drugged by these people. Joy collected cans and bottles and used the automatic vending machines at the store, taking her receipt into the store where she was paid hurriedly because of her appearance and smell.
Joy learned how to use the missions, listening to the church-based propaganda for what seemed like hours before she was allowed to eat their watered-down soups. Still, it was food. She was grateful
for the little she had. Her life had changed so drastically: from a warm and loving home with two doting parents, to living on the street begging for handouts and trying to keep herself from being a victim of the all-too-common violence. She was one of many, and while she tended to stay to herself, she was aware, very aware, of the many other street kids like herself.
Joy could see that just surviving on the streets was no way to live. She, like countless others, tried to get out, but it was hard once you were in. She cleaned up the best she could at the missions the nights she was able to cop a bed, but she still had only the clothes on her back and these became ragged and had to be replaced with cast-offs from the mission barrel. She looked and felt like a castoff herself, one of the many, but she felt she was outside these people, that she was not part of them.
When she was seventeen, a man at one of the many downtown dives took pity on her and began to train her as a bartender. She cleaned up good, let her hair get shaggy so it could hide her eyes and her age, and she was able to pass for the legal drinking age of eighteen. By the time the legal age in Wisconsin was raised to nineteen, she was a fixture in a few of the downtown bars. She was working as a bartender here and there, and hiding in a dilapidated old building that was to be torn down. Paid under the table, she avoided taxes and having any legal paperwork identify her. People, if they wanted to get hold of her, learned to leave a message at one of the bars where she worked, but it might be weeks, if at all, that she answered.
Joy was eighteen when she saved enough to finally feel confident enough to do something she had wanted for a while. She sent for her birth certificate and then got herself the social security card that her mother had applied for when she was only four months old. She was grateful that one of the bars allowed her to receive mail. With this information, she proudly applied for her driver’s license. She tested with a friend’s car and was delighted to receive her first official form of identification. One goal had been satisfied. The next goal would take a little longer and she began to take courses on those nights she was not tending bar, still hiding herself and dodging those would-be hangers-on who would follow a woman alone. She’d become very adept on the streets, never taking the same way twice to her hideout.
The Outsider Page 1
