A Chance in the World Read online

  “She just went home to get some things you will need for your stay, then she will be back. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, but my heart sank at the knowledge that Betty was indeed coming back.

  Nurse Nancy sat on the edge of my bed and folded her hands. “Steve, I want to ask you something. This story you are telling, about falling out of the cart and hurting your head—that’s not what happened, is it?”

  I looked out the window and into the myriad colors of an early evening sky. I so desperately wanted to tell her that what I had said wasn’t true, that Betty was the one who had done this to me. Yet I knew what would happen to me if I told the truth, so I remained silent. My bottom lip quivered, and my eyes began to water.

  “That’s okay,” Nurse Nancy said, patting my hand. “We can talk about it later.”

  Many years later, after reviewing my case history and medical records, I learned that a lot more was unfolding at St. Luke’s Hospital those summer days in July 1973. From the moment I walked into the emergency room, the doctors and nurses who attended to me were suspicious about the story Betty had concocted. Nurse Nancy had summoned the two emergency room doctors to examine me, and they confirmed what she already knew: I had been badly beaten. When they asked Betty to step outside the hospital room where I was treated, it was to grill her about my injuries and how I could have sustained so many in a single fall. They were particularly concerned about the bruises on my back and believed they were inconsistent with the story Betty was telling.

  Betty put on her best performance and repeated that I had fallen out of the cart. She could explain my other injuries no more than she could explain why I was seriously underweight. She had raised her own children and several other foster children and nothing like this had ever happened. “Call the Department of Social Services, and they will tell you what a great mother I am,” she said. “I’ve taken in thirty-nine foster children, and I’ve won awards for what I’ve done.” She told them that she’d taken in children nobody else wanted, including me, who had come to her abandoned by his own mother and horribly abused by several other foster homes. I had a lot of problems, including hurting myself, but she was doing her best.

  Nurse Nancy and the two emergency room doctors were not convinced, so they admitted me to the hospital—to buy more time to determine what to do and to protect me from the Robinsons. What they decided to do next was call Dr. William Downey, the Robinsons’ family pediatrician. They would share their concerns and presumably get his counsel.

  They didn’t know that Betty, feral in instinct and as shrewd as a con artist, had already called Dr. Downey, blasting my three protectors for accusing her of child abuse and asking that he vouch for her and what she had done to care for children. Downey, a graduate of Harvard Medical School, admitted that my injuries looked suspicious, but he “knew Betty to be a loving and caring mother who would not let something like this happen.” He, and he alone, decided that I should return.

  At the time, I was unaware that any of this was unfolding. What I did know was that almost no one believed Betty’s story; the whispers in the hallway and empathetic attention I received told me as much. And because of this, I made a critical mistake: I continued telling the same story because I believed that the kind people at the hospital would figure it all out.

  For a moment they had. Nurse Nancy and the two doctors had not only seen through Betty’s charade but did something no one else had done up to that point: they took a stand on my behalf. Their strong opinions, though, were vetoed by the one person who, if he couldn’t follow his own instincts, could have at least listened to my three protectors. His judgment was all that stood between me and freedom from the Robinsons. As it turned out, it was the closest I would come to freedom. Dr. Downey, who died in 2004, went on to enjoy a wonderful career in pediatrics. He was, I am certain, a good and honorable man. Yet his training and experience seemed to have abandoned him when it came to me.

  I learned that I was going back to the house on Arnold Street from a nurse who had wheeled dinner into my room. “You’re going home tomorrow,” she said, in an effort to make conversation. “Aren’t you excited?” Her words hung in the air long after she left the room.

  My food was lined up neat and orderly. Normally I would have scarfed it down the second I thought no one was watching. Now I simply stared at it. I was going back. They had not figured it out after all. Tears came with this realization, and this time I did not try to hold them back or wipe them away. The tears, salty and bitter, ran down my cheeks and plopped onto my dinner tray, making small dark circles on the white paper place mat.

  The following morning, Willie, Betty, Reggie, and Lisa all came to the hospital to pick me up. They carried balloons and stuffed animals, giving every appearance of the doting, affectionate family. When Nurse Nancy came into the room, they laughed and joked, and I found myself the center of attention, the apple of their eye. “Well, Steve, it’s time to go,” Nurse Nancy announced, pointing at the wheelchair.

  “I know,” I said. I didn’t want to go. This hospital was the nicest place I had been, and the people were the kindest I had ever known. I got into the wheelchair, and we spun around to face the doorway. As we wheeled down the hallway, a number of people in bright-pink uniforms told me to take care and enjoy the best of luck. Maybe they don’t want me to leave, I thought.

  The going-home caravan arrived at the emergency room entrance, where I’d been dropped off two days earlier. As we exited, the cool of the hospital gave way to a heavy mugginess. Waiting for me was the Robinsons’ yellow and brown station wagon, a sure sign that I was returning to the house of horrors. I stared at it for a long time, too afraid to move.

  Nurse Nancy must have sensed this, because she kneeled down so that she was eye level with me. For the very first time, I caught a scent of her perfume, an airy fragrance that I wanted to grab and keep with me. Traffic glided by on Page Street, and a gentle breeze floated through the air. She patted my arm. “You are going to be just fine. You are a fighter, I can tell.” She kept her hand on my arm for a moment longer. Wiping away tears, she stood up and announced in a firm voice, “We don’t want to see you back here again. You stay away from shopping carts.” There was seriousness to her tone that I hadn’t heard during the previous two days.

  I slid into the middle seat in the back of the station wagon. Reggie piled in after me and elbowed me hard in the ribs for not giving him enough room. “Get off me,” he said, hissing. We pulled away from the curb, but I kept my eyes fixed on Nurse Nancy, craning my neck to watch her as we moved around the bend. The humidity in the car was suffocating. She did not wave but stood there watching the car.

  “She can’t help you now,” Betty said. She turned her head to the left to look directly at me. “One of the first things you’re going to do is clean up all that blood you got all over the kitchen floor.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, lowering my eyes.

  Reggie leaned out the window, turned in the direction of Nurse Nancy, and launched a vulgar expletive in her direction.

  Nurse Nancy, whose hands were holding the wheelchair, raised one of them to her mouth, shook her head, and walked swiftly into the hospital, leaving the wheelchair at the curb.

  A month later, Patti Southworth, aware of my trip to the hospital and the intense discussion among the doctors as to whether I had been beaten, wrote the following summary in my case file:

  Steve is an odd six year old . . . he is extremely nervous and quiet. He is eager to please and will become very anxious and upset if he is reprimanded. Steve has expressed concerns about his future, and, wonders if he’ll ever get “real” parents and why no one wants him. I think much of his insecurity stems from his poor treatment at the Andrade home and that he had to be moved from there. Mrs. Robinson and her family seem to give Steve much love and attention and will give Steve good preparation for an adoptive home.

  CHAPTER 11

  We were all at once, terribly alone; and alone, we
must see it through.

  —ERICH MARIA REMARQUE, ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT

  One summer the Robinsons decided to reshingle their house. Scaffolding arose around the three-tenement home, almost magically to my nine-year-old eyes, reaching to the top of the third floor. Climbing the metal and wooden structure, workers undertook the arduous task of removing the old shingles and dropping them into large Dumpsters on the sidewalk.

  We were told we had to stay indoors lest a falling shingle hit us. Staying in the house was not a problem for Betty, who never worked and watched TV most of the day; but for me, a curious little boy, it was cruel and unusual punishment. To pass the time, I grabbed a book and sat on the back stairs where it was a bit cooler. I tried to lose myself in my latest mystery, but I kept getting distracted by the white shingles that floated through the air before crashing into the Dumpster. I walked over to the screen door and pressed my nose against it, trying to look up. As I stood there, I noticed some of the shingles had missed the Dumpster and that a heavyset worker was picking them up.

  “I can help,” I said.

  “Whatta you say?” he asked, in a loud voice that rose above the sound of banging hammers. He wore a yellow hard hat and dark shades. A T-shirt with the arms cut off at the sleeves showed his bulging muscles.

  “I said I can help.”

  He eyed me warily. “How ya gonna do that?”

  “Well, I can pick up the shingles that miss the bucket so you won’t have to come down and get ’em.”

  I could tell he was thinking about it, because he didn’t respond right away. He took a look up at the scaffolding, almost weighing the effort it would take to keep coming up and down the structure. “Where’s ya mother?”

  “Inside.” As soon as I said it, my heart sank. She wasn’t going to let me out of the house.

  “Why don’t you go get her for me?” he asked.

  I found Betty sitting on the couch watching a soap opera. “One of the workers wants to see you, ma’am,” I said.

  “What do they want now?” she asked, irritated that she had to get up. I did not dare let on that I was the reason he wanted to see her.

  With some effort she rose from the corner of the couch and walked to the back porch. By the time she got to the screen door, her demeanor had transformed. “Yes,” she said, using her stage voice.

  “Smart little boy ya got there,” the man said. It wasn’t a question, and though my expression never changed, inside I was beaming. Betty looked at me quizzically but did not acknowledge his remark. I did not return her gaze. “I’d like to put him to work, if ya don’t mind,” the man said. “Some of these shingles are on the ground, and he can toss ’em in the garbage for us. We’ll give him a hard hat, kinda make him one of the crew.”

  She hesitated. The worker, believing that she was concerned for me, interjected, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him.” With a sigh she relented, telling me that I was to listen to the crew at all times.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, barely able to contain my excitement.

  For the rest of that day, I sat on the back porch, waiting for the loud clacking sound of a missed shingle striking the sidewalk. When I heard it, I bolted from the back porch, much like kids who shag errant serves in tennis tournaments. I picked up the shingle and heaved it into the Dumpster, enjoying the loud crashing as my toss found its mark. Then I returned to my spot and waited for the next one to drop.

  After a few days of shingle shagging and other small assignments, I really did become part of the crew. My responsibilities included everything from picking up loose nails to getting tools they needed. I learned how to hammer a nail, how to use a level, and what a Phillips-head screwdriver looked like. The men allowed me to keep the hard hat, and soon they expanded my ensemble to include a tool belt and lunch pail. Each morning I raced through my chores to be ready in time for my new friends to arrive.

  They taught me a great deal, perhaps without trying to. I saw how much pride they took in the small details, in doing a job well. I saw, too, the bond they shared with one another, reflected in their lighthearted banter during the lunch hour. They often took their breaks across the street from the house, where Fuller’s paint store ran the length of the block and offered welcome shade from the summer heat. They sat with their backs against the cool brick wall, lunch boxes and thermoses at their sides. I joined them, and they asked about subjects I liked in school, who my friends were, and whether I liked any of the girls in my class.

  One day the questions became more serious. George, the construction worker I had initially approached, put his arm around me. “Now, these people,” he said, pointing his bologna sandwich at the house across the street, “they aren’t ya real parents, are they?”

  “No, sir,” I said.

  George was quiet for a moment. “Do ya know where ya real parents are?”

  “No, sir.”

  He was quiet for a bit longer, and then he turned to me so abruptly that it caught me off guard; I actually backed up a couple of inches. “Don’t ya worry about those people,” he said, gesturing again at the house on Arnold Street. “God takes care of people like that.” It didn’t occur to me that George had sensed what was happening inside the house. Perhaps if I had thought about it a bit longer, I would have realized that the workers were in and around the house and would have heard many of our conversations and interactions.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, you like to read, I see. Always got books with ya. Don’t ever stop readin’. Education is the most important thing you can get. Ya understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It never dawned on me that one day their work on the house would be finished. The last morning, the doorbell rang, and Betty answered. It was George, and although I was in the other room, I could overhear snippets of their conversation. She was signing some papers while thanking him for a job well done. As he got ready to leave, he asked Betty if I could walk him outside. A few minutes later, the two of us stood together on the sidewalk in silence. I adjusted my tool belt nervously. “We gotta move on to another job, Steve,” George finally said.

  It hit me that I wasn’t going to see him and the crew any longer. Looking around at the crew, who were congregated a few feet away near their truck, I began to plead: “Can’t I go with you guys? I won’t get in the way, I promise.”

  George shook his head solemnly. “Sorry, Steve, ya can’t. We’d love to have ya. Isn’t that right, fellas?”

  They nodded in unison. “Best little worker I’ve ever seen,” one of them said.

  “Works harder than you,” said another to his friend, joking.

  By then I couldn’t hold back the tears. George got down on one knee to address me at eye level: “You remember what we talked about?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, crying harder.

  “Good. Don’t you forget it now, ya hear.”

  They climbed into the truck and drove off. I stood on the street corner, watching the truck wind its way up Arnold Street. When I couldn’t see it any longer, I ran down into the cellar and cried until there were no tears left.

  CHAPTER 12

  Maybe there’s a chance for me to go back there

  Now that I have some direction

  It sure would be nice to be back home

  Where there’s love and affection

  And just maybe I can convince time to slow up

  Giving me enough time in my life to grow up

  Time be my friend, let me start again . . .

  —CHARLIE SMALLS, “HOME,” THE WIZ

  For most of us, home is the place where our life story begins. It is where we are understood, embraced, and accepted. It is a sanctuary of safety and security, of deep and abiding connections, and perhaps most of all, a place to which we can always return. Down in the dank basement, amid my moldy, hoarded food and worm-eaten books, sat another precious possession: the idea that my real home, the place where my story had begun, was out there somewhere and one day I
was going to find it.

  I cradled this notion as intensely as I did my beloved books. I was absolutely convinced that my real family was coming to rescue me from these real-life monsters. I concentrated this emotion nearly entirely on the idea of my father, a man I imagined to be strong and heroic, the only one brave enough to ascend the concrete stairs of the house on Arnold Street, bang loudly on the front door (no polite ringing of the doorbell for him), and say, “I have come for my son; give him to me.” We’d walk off together, me nestled safely in the crook of his arm, headed for the place fathers and sons go to recapture time.

  I grew impatient waiting for him, though. And so one summer day when I was eleven years old, I went looking for him. The occasion was an outburst from Betty. We were sitting in the living room, and she was furious at me about something I’ve long forgotten. “You’re gonna be no good,” she said, “just like your father!” The comment about my father stunned me, for no one had ever acknowledged that they knew who he was. The only thing I’d been told about him was what Betty said on many occasions—he didn’t want me. I had learned to keep my features unreadable, but I broke that unwritten rule at the mention of my father’s identity. My head snapped up, giving away my shocked expression.

  “That’s right, you heard me,” she said, a nasty grin spreading across her face. She had my attention now. “Lemme tell you, boy. After they killed your father, they broke into the funeral home and set his body on fire.” She shifted her weight on the couch, getting more comfortable as she warmed to her story. “Yep, they sure did. They hated him so much they hadda roll a rock over his grave so nobody would dig up his body. He was no good, and I can tell you something right now—the apple don’t fall far from the tree. Not far from the tree at all.”

  Although I was not allowed to make eye contact (Robinson Rule #15), I couldn’t help it this time. I stared at her long and hard, and this one time she let me violate the rule. Was what she said true? Or was this yet another one of her poison-tipped verbal daggers?