A Chance in the World Page 2

  I pretended not to hear and continued to play. Then a man strode into the living room. He was a big bear of a man, with a long mustache that went down to his chin. He was dressed all in blue, including his hat. He walked over to Betty and pecked her on the cheek.

  “Having a good day at work, Willie?” she asked.

  “Same as usual,” he said in a deep voice. He nodded at me. “So, who is this?”

  “This is Steve,” Betty said, “although I like Stevie better.” She winked at me, and again I glowed.

  “Well, does he like basketball?” Willie asked, pulling out a small red ball from behind his back. He showed me how to dribble the ball. I’m not sure what amazed me more, watching the ball bounce up and down in perfect rhythm or his enormous, paint-flecked hands that nearly engulfed the ball.

  A few minutes later, Willie announced that he had to go back to work. Before leaving, he leaned over to shake my hand. I watched my little hand disappear into his. “Nice to meetcha,” he said. He walked away, but then, pausing in the doorway, he said, “By the way, you can keep that.” His finger pointed at the red ball that I hadn’t stopped bouncing since he first showed me how.

  A short time later, Patti told me that it was time to go. As we were walking out the door, Betty stopped me. “Would you like a cookie?” she asked.

  I bobbed my head yes.

  She handed me two small cookies. I started to munch on one; the other I stuck in my pocket, crumbs falling to the bottom of the inside lining. Betty and Patti exchanged looks but said nothing.

  I was too busy enjoying my cookie to figure out what their looks meant. Climbing into Patti’s car, holding my precious cargo, I felt certain of something: This was the place. I had found a home.

  CHAPTER 6

  August 1972 left many footprints in history. On August 1, reports emerged that a $25,000 cashier’s check—designated for President Richard Nixon’s reelection bid—had found its way into the bank account of one of the Watergate burglars, formally linking the break-in to the Nixon campaign for the first time. That same day, National Security Adviser Henry Kissinger met with North Vietnamese diplomat Le Duc Tho in Paris to broker what would ultimately be a rather temporary cease-fire in Vietnam. Both stories were buried by the formal withdrawal of Democratic vice presidential nominee Thomas Eagleton, after weeks of rumor and speculation that he had been the recipient of shock therapy.

  The Summer Olympics in Munich, intended to showcase a new and more democratic Germany but remembered for something far more sinister, started later that month. Gasoline was fifty-five cents a gallon, and the dark brilliance of The Godfather reigned at the box office.

  Locally, New Bedford was abuzz over the tragic murder of a young prizefighter named Kenny Pemberton. And I arrived at the house on Arnold Street to live.

  The house stood close to the corner of Arnold and Chancery streets in the western end of New Bedford, Massachusetts. As Patti and I stepped out of the car, I took a longer look at the neighborhood I would soon call mine. It was awash in colors and sounds that I had failed to notice on my first visit. Across the street sat a bright-red brick building that ran the length of the block. A large, red-white-and-blue sign outside read “Benjamin Fuller Paint Store.” On the opposite corner stood Sunnybrook Farms, a local grocery store whose sign featured a perfectly painted picture of the sun. Right next door to the Robinson home, on Chancery Street, was a low-slung, white brick building with a green roof and no sign. It piqued my curiosity, now in overdrive. On the corner was a bright-orange fire hydrant, and on the opposite corner a bright-red stop sign. Farther down stood several homes of varying colors and designs.

  Patti Southworth watched as I took it all in. “Ready?” she asked.

  Betty was sitting on the back porch, wearing a pretty flowered shirt and blue shorts. Again she greeted me with that magnificent smile: “Welcome to your new home. We’ve been looking forward to having you.” At her feet was a small tricycle with an orange frame, bright-yellow handlebars and seat, and blue pedals. The two small wheels in back and one big one in front sparkled in the sun. I gawked at it, fascinated.

  “That,” she said, “is called a Big Wheel. And it’s yours!”

  “Really?” I asked. I’d never received anything like this.

  “Would you like to try it?”

  I nodded.

  She opened the back door of the porch and set the Big Wheel down on the ground. Off in the distance I could hear dogs barking and children playing. It was a stiflingly hot summer day. “You can ride it,” she said, “but you have to stay right here on the sidewalk where I can see you.” Again I felt that warm rush because, as best I could recall, no one had ever seemed concerned enough about me to care where I was going.

  I had never ridden a bicycle or anything like it, but it didn’t take me long to figure out the Big Wheel. I put my tiny feet on those blue pedals and roared up and down the sidewalk, my legs moving like pistons, the wind rushing through my ears. Betty and Patti watched with amusement.

  I continued pedaling down the block until I saw Patti standing by the front door. “Bye, Steve,” she said, waving her hand. “I’ll be coming back to see you soon.” I waved back and then sped off again on my Big Wheel, trying to impress her with my newfound toy. When I turned around for another circuit toward the house on Arnold Street, she was already in her car and driving away.

  Betty was standing there, her hand on the white screen door, holding it open. “It’s time to come inside,” she said. “Make sure you bring the Big Wheel with you.” I pedaled up to the front porch, stopping abruptly. I had hoped to impress her, too, with my skill, but her expression did not change. Where is her smile?

  I grabbed the Big Wheel and mounted the stairs. The toy was cumbersome and clunky; I banged my shin against the cement stair and yelped. I glanced at her, expecting her to help me, but she did not. Finally, I reached the top of the stairs. “You can put it over there,” she said, pointing to the spot where I’d first seen it. “And then come over here.”

  I did as she asked. She was sitting down now, in a tan wicker chair with a high back that only seemed to heighten her stature. “There are rules we have for living here,” she said. “And one of them is that you are going to have chores around the house, starting with the dishes in the pantry. My son Reggie will show you where they are.”

  Who is Reggie? I had no sooner posed the question to myself than a large figure appeared in the doorway. Reggie Robinson was about sixteen years old at the time, with round features and a perfectly combed Afro, the spitting image of his mother, except taller. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt, gray shorts, and flip-flops. “That way,” he said, pointing inside the house, past the doorway.

  I began walking where he’d said. Then I felt a shove in my back, propelling me forward faster than my feet could take me. I nearly fell but caught my balance. I looked back at him, bewildered. What was that for?

  He grinned back, and a bolt of fear rifled through me. Though I hadn’t seen a look like his before, I understood it immediately. He’s making sure I know my place, I thought. Then I felt another emotion, arresting and frightful. There is something not quite right here.

  The pantry was right off the kitchen and only big enough for one person to pass through. Several shelves extended above my head on the left and right. At the pantry’s far end was a large sink. “See these dishes?” he said, pointing to a mountain of glasses, plates, and silverware piled in the sink.

  I nodded my head yes.

  “You have to wash and dry all of them.”

  I looked at the sink and then back at him, completely confused by what he wanted me to do. I’d never washed dishes before and didn’t have a clue how. The first problem was that the faucet was set far back in the sink, and I wasn’t tall enough to reach it. “I can’t reach that high,” I said.

  He pointed to a small wooden step stool right in front of the sink.

  “That’s what the step stool is for, stupid.”

 
I am not stupid, I thought.

  When I stepped up on the stool, it wobbled, and I hung in that precarious place between balance and free fall before shifting my weight to steady myself. I could feel Reggie’s shadow and malevolent grin beating into my back. Still, I wanted to perform my chores correctly. This was my new home, and I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize it. I surveyed the mountain of dishes again and turned on the water. Grabbing the first dish, I ran it under the faucet and then placed it on the counter.

  “No!” Reggie said.

  I turned my head at the sound of his voice, and he dealt me a thunderous smack across my face. It sent me flying off the step stool and caused me to bang my head against the pantry wall. “You’re doing it wrong!” he said again, but this time his voice was low and guttural.

  I felt tiny spikes of pain in the place where he had hit me, but I was too angry to pay much attention. I scrambled to my feet. “I’m going to tell on you,” I said.

  Reggie smiled—a wicked grin telling me to go right ahead.

  I walked back to the front porch where Betty was sitting and drinking a can of Tab, the diet soft drink. “He hit me!” I said, pointing in the direction of the pantry.

  The glowing eyes and beautiful smile that I had come to expect were gone. In their place were coldness and indifference. “Get back in there and do those dishes,” she said.

  Reggie, who had followed me to the back porch, laughed. I didn’t move. A swirl of thoughts flooded my mind: There must be a mistake . . . I am not supposed to be here, am I? . . . This is not the same kind woman I met on my previous trip . . . This is not the place I am supposed to be . . . Why have I been left here?

  “Now!” Betty said.

  I jumped at the savagery of her voice and began to cry. Walking back to the pantry, I noticed that the tires on the Big Wheel weren’t as shiny and new as I had thought.

  Reggie was waiting in the pantry. During the next half hour, through a brutal process of trial and error, I learned how to wash dishes. I also learned how to be afraid.

  CHAPTER 7

  Robinson Rule #1: You are never to tell anyone outside this house about what goes on here. If you do, you will go right back to that terrible home you were in.

  Robinson Rule #2: We aren’t your mother and father. You call us ma’am and sir.

  Robinson Rule #3: You don’t speak unless spoken to.

  Robinson Rule #4: You are dumb and ugly. Something about you isn’t right. Everybody knows this.

  Robinson Rule #5: No one will ever take your word over ours.

  Robinson Rule #6: You will eat what we give you, when we give it to you. When you’re hungry, it’s your tough luck. Do not open the refrigerator—ever.

  Robinson Rule #7: We can beat you at any moment, in any place, at any time, with whatever is in arm’s reach. We don’t need a reason.

  Robinson Rule #8: No one wants you, especially your own mother and father.

  Robinson Rule #9: You are here to wait on us hand and foot. You’re only as good as what you can do for us.

  CHAPTER 8

  To the outside world, the Robinsons appeared to be a loving family. Beneath the surface, however, tension, paranoia, violence, and deception reigned. There were Willie and Betty and their two sons, Eddie and Reggie. Eddie, the near-spitting image of famed Red Sox pitcher Luis Tiant, was older than Reggie and did not live at the house on Arnold Street. The Robinsons were known, too, for taking in foster children throughout the years, thirty-nine to be exact, a number Betty would tell anyone who doubted her charitable heart. What she never said was that none of them stayed until they were eighteen. The one exception was a girl, Lisa, who was four years younger than me and also lived at the house.

  My new home was a “three-decker”—a three-story apartment building—common in the New England region. We lived in the first-floor apartment, and the Robinsons rented out the other two. The house had been poorly constructed—the five rooms were small and tight, the floors warped and slanted. Willie and Betty had one bedroom and Lisa another. I shared the last bedroom with Reggie, where I occupied the top bunk.

  The Robinsons were African American. Willie was from the South, and Betty was from New Bedford. Food was plentiful—for the Robinsons—and the refrigerator and freezer were always well stocked. They had big appetites and were overweight. Dental care was not important, and they all had dentures. I escaped this fate only because I listened to my teachers and school nurses who told me to brush regularly and provided toothpaste and toothbrushes to make sure I did. The Robinsons never took me to a dentist.

  The family dynamic was anything but warm. Eddie was treated as an outsider. On the Robinson meter, he was only slightly better than a foster child—an alienation I never fully understood. This was strangely comforting; I realized it was not just me who had to live by the Robinson Rules. He had moved out at his earliest opportunity, but whenever he came by to see his parents, they would attack and criticize him. He would leave the house in a huff, disappearing for weeks or months at a time. His absences were always crushing for me because I had come to adore him. Unlike Eddie, I did not have the luxury of simply leaving.

  Reggie’s calling in life, as best I could understand it, was to smoke reefer, shoplift, listen to Diana Ross, stay out until two or three o’clock in the morning, and sleep until noon. He also flat out refused to look for work of any kind. This always ignited Willie’s anger, but Betty doted on Reggie and protected her youngest son, making excuses for him at every turn. Most times she succeeded, but one memorable time when I was about ten years old, Willie had had enough. He gathered all of Reggie’s clothes in a bag and put the bag—and Reggie—out on the street. Betty went into hysterics, grabbed her heart Fred Sanford–style, slid off the couch, and begged for her nitroglycerine tablets. When the dust finally settled, Betty’s heart attack had miraculously passed, and Reggie was safe and sound in his bed. A week later, I overheard Reggie and Betty laughing and joking about how they had pulled a fast one over on Willie.

  That was Betty at her vilest—shrewd, manipulative, and feral in instinct. Over the years, I watched her exploit almost everyone around her. When guile didn’t succeed, her tongue—acidic, cutting, and repulsive— would step in to fill the void. Words were like weapons to her, and she would hurl them at you, poisoned-tipped barbs aimed right for things you cared about the most. Far too often, she would hit her mark.

  Lisa looked like a biological member of the Robinson clan. Not too long after she had arrived as a foster child, the Robinsons took the necessary legal steps to formally adopt her, something they never even considered for me. From the very beginning, it was clear to me that she was the daughter Betty never had. Not only was Lisa exempt from the rules of the Robinson home, but they also made up new ones just for her. When she failed third grade, largely because of a lack of effort, Betty bought her a new bike, justifying the purchase by saying that if Lisa were going to stay back, Betty was glad it had happened now rather than later. Meanwhile my straight A’s and acceptance into the city’s Talented and Gifted program went unrecognized and unrewarded.

  Willie worked as a painter at the Polaroid film factory on the outskirts of New Bedford. Of no formal education (he couldn’t read or write), Willie was a violent man, a human Mount Vesuvius, and like any volcano, you knew it was simply a matter of time before he blew. The only questions were (1) when and (2) whether any of that molten rock of rage and fury would flow over you. When it did, watch out.

  Throughout the house were his tools of violence: rifles and pistols, knives and brass knuckles, even grenades and old artillery shells that he kept from his days in the military. Willie’s chosen instrument of discipline for me was a brown leather strap, about as wide as an adult hand. It hung on the wall between the kitchen and the living room, along with his car keys and the flyswatter. Willie had cut the top of the strap into thin strips, and he would often oil it to make sure it did not become dry and brittle. He bared his teeth as he performed this tas
k, his tongue lolling from his mouth as he concentrated. The only things that received more meticulous care from him were his guns.

  Corporal punishment in the African American community, or “whoopins” as they are frequently called, have long been accepted as a cultural norm. Much of the use of corporal punishment stems from the widely held belief that to “spare the rod is to spoil the child.” It is not uncommon for those raised under this system of punishment to recount those experiences, usually with lighthearted banter. You can hear the stories at family reunions and it is a favorite subject of African American comedians. Some preachers refer to it from the pulpit on Sunday mornings, citing Scripture and the belief that if you love your child you will discipline him or her when necessary.

  But Willie’s beatings did not come from biblical Scripture or from love. He wanted to wield that strap and would use any opportunity to do so. A dirty dish, a light left on, or a door left open was enough to send the strap swooshing through the air. On one occasion, I came home from school, quite satisfied with the straight A’s I received on my report card, only to find myself on the receiving end of the strap. He justified it by saying that I hadn’t received a beating in a while and there must have been something I had done wrong.

  His beatings were often carefully planned affairs, and he went about preparing for them as if they were family vacations. He particularly enjoyed telling me before I went to school in the morning that I was to receive a beating in the evening, knowing full well that it would dominate my day. I became quiet and withdrawn at school as I tried to find the courage to face what would happen when I got back to Arnold Street. There were times, though, when the pressure of the moment would get to me and I would burst into tears, mystifying my elementary school teachers. I came to live not just in fear but abject terror, the kind that rises up and takes over every sense of your being. Years later, long after the hunger and beatings were no longer residents of my mind, it would be that fear that would be the last to leave.