by Wayne, Jimmy
Now, a few days before Mother’s Day, I came running back down the stairs to the dining room, wielding the pocketknife and yelling, “You’re not stopping me from going home!”
The staff and the residents sat frozen at the wooden dining table, not certain of what I planned to do. I wasn’t sure myself, so I ran outside into the front yard, where I stood and yelled some more. Cheryl, one of the lead staff members, followed me outside and attempted to calm me down as I held the knife in front of me.
When Cheryl stepped toward me, I pressed the knife’s point against my stomach, threatening to kill myself. I knew I wasn’t going to stab myself, but she didn’t. Cheryl finally talked me into giving her the knife, and we went back inside the house.
My outburst could have destroyed any opportunity to go home for a visit with Mama, but the staff recognized that I was operating out of deep anger. I’d had numerous sessions with my counselors and the entire group about better ways of handling anger. I apologized to everyone, and the incident, although noted in my records, was not held against me.
On Mother’s Day I could barely contain my excitement when I saw Mama pull up in the driveway. I ran out to her car and hugged her. We were excited to see each other. Once we left the property, Mama asked me if there was anything I needed.
“Yes,” I told her. “I’d like to have a fan for my bedroom.” We went to a store, and she bought me a small fan that clipped onto the headboard of my bed. She also purchased a green apple, a bag of Funyuns, and a Mountain Dew. We then headed to the trailer, where she and Tim now lived.
As soon as he saw me walk in the door, Tim left without even acknowledging me.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked Mama.
“Oh, he’s mad. Don’t worry about it. He’s probably jealous that you are here.”
Mama and I spent the entire day together, and that evening she took me back to Faith Farm. I sure hated to see her drive away. I spent the remainder of the night in my room.
The next morning one of the staff members said, “Jimmy, we’re not taking you to school today; you need to go to the hospital.”
“Why? I feel fine,” I said.
“You’ll understand when we get there.”
They wouldn’t tell me what was going on, but I knew instinctively that Tim had done something to hurt Mama. We arrived at the hospital and went to the section used as a battered women’s shelter. When we walked in, I saw Mama sitting in a chair with her head down. At first, I wasn’t even sure it was her. Her face was swollen and marbled in black, purple, and yellow bruises. Her hands were sliced and covered in dried blood, as though she had tried to grab a knife and the blade had slid through her fingers.
I ran to her. “Mama, what happened? Mama, tell me! What happened? Did Tim do this to you?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said quietly through her swollen and parched lips. “I was in the bed asleep when Tim came into the bedroom drunk and started hitting me while I was still under the covers,” she said. She tried to fight him off, but Tim had stabbed her in the stomach with a pocketknife that Mama kept on the side of the bed. Mama stumbled out of the house and made it to the neighbors’, who called an ambulance.
I felt furious and helpless at the same time. “Mama, do you need anything?”
“I need something for this headache,” she answered.
I had a few dollars in my pocket, so I told her I’d be back shortly. Although her doctor could have prescribed something to ease Mama’s pain, I felt it was my responsibility to do something. After all, Tim had probably beaten the daylights out of her because of my visit. I ran across the road to the convenience store at the bottom of the hill and purchased a box of BC Headache Powder and took it back to Mama.
Mama told me that this beating was the final straw, that she was going to divorce Tim and she wanted me to come back home to live with her. Before she left the hospital, the DSS began working on the transition, and I began mentally preparing to leave Faith Farm.
I WAS DOING MY BEST TO WALK THE LINE AND STAY OUT OF trouble, so I could go home and look after Mama. That’s why I freaked out when on June 16, 1987, I heard that two new residents, Jack and Dillan, had stolen some money out of the staff’s office and were planning on running away. My first thought was, Oh no, guys! Please don’t do it. We’ll all be sitting in the living room for another two weeks.
I called both of them into my room and told them about the stolen Snickers candy bars. I begged them to put the money back.
Dillan went downstairs, slipped into the office, and placed the money back into the safe. Shortly afterward the staff on duty yelled, “Group!”
I knew what was about to happen. We all filed into the living room, and the staff person said, “Someone has been in the safe, and we want to know who it was. We’ll sit here until someone owns up.”
I wasn’t about to snitch on Jack or Dillan, but I gave them a look that let them know they’d better speak up. The silence in the room was thick. Finally one of them quietly said, “I took the money, but Jimmy talked us into putting it back.”
I hadn’t expected that sort of honesty and was probably more shocked than the staff!
The staff dismissed everyone except Jack and Dillan. They spent the rest of the night in the staff office getting lectured about stealing.
The next day at school I heard my name on the intercom; I was being called to the front office. When I walked into the principal’s office, I was surprised to see one of the staff members from Faith Farm sitting there. She said, “I’m checking you out of school early today, Jimmy, because you and I are going to the mall.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I’m taking you to the mall, and you can buy anything of your choice for as much as fifty dollars, as a reward for talking Dillan and Jack into returning the money they stole last night.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I said, thinking that not having to sit in the living room for two weeks was reward enough for me.
“No, we want to reward your good choice,” she explained. So we went to the mall, where I picked out a pair of cool blue-and-gold Quiksilver swim trunks. I was thrilled because Faith Farm had a beach trip scheduled, and I didn’t own a swimsuit. Now I did.
THE STAFF AT FAITH FARM REQUIRED THAT WE COMPLETE daily evaluations, along with the staff’s daily reviews replete with their comments about our day, reprimands, evaluation of our progress in working toward our goals, and encouragements to do better. As I’d done since sixth grade, I continued to write in my journal as often as possible. My journal entries while at Faith Farm were much more positive than what they used to be. Where I had written before in my journal: “I was abused today” or “I hate living,” my Faith Farm entries now read:
May 1, 1987: I went to my first jr. high prom with Tina Miller at W.C. Friday. Well, it was her prom, and she invited me. [I was so unsophisticated; I called her corsage a croissant. I didn’t know any better.]
May 18, 1987: I wore an EKG machine to monitor my heartbeat. I have an irregular heartbeat, but I think it is cool.
June 6, 1987: I went to the lake with the group. That was so much fun.
July 4, 1987: Kathy made me listen to Jimmy Buffett on the way to Myrtle Beach, SC. The pavilion was one of the greatest places I’ve ever been. But I’m mighty sunburned.
One of the most foolish practices of Faith Farm (or any group home) was bringing teenage girls to live in the same home as teenage boys. Tia, the oldest in our home, was seventeen. A second girl, Somer, was fourteen. The boys and girls had their own facilities, and we were to live as “brothers and sisters;” but many of the boys and girls were already sexually active. Those who weren’t likely would be before they left the home. Once Chris, our live-in staff person, went to bed, we had the run of the house. Did they really think that a fourteen-year-old boy wouldn’t be attracted to a fourteen-year-old girl? Or a seventeen-year-old girl wouldn’t have sex with a sixteen-year-old boy just because the rules said not to do that? The co-e
d living situation was an irresponsible accident waiting to happen, and many did. Worse yet, there were emotionally fragile, needy, or damaged kids who were sometimes needlessly placed in vulnerable, compromising positions. But as a teenage boy, discovering how wonderfully different girls were from boys, I didn’t complain.
Prior to moving into the group home, I kept all my personal belongings in two cardboard boxes. But at Faith Farm someone on staff gave me an old suitcase with discolored copper latches. That old suitcase became my own personal treasure chest in which I kept my most cherished items. I used the suitcase to store letters from Mama, my early report cards, some of my artwork, and many of my poems. I also kept the receipt from the Trailways bus station and other special receipts.
Overall, living at Faith Farm changed my life for the better. Although it wasn’t an authentic family situation, living at the group home showed me what a normal household could be like. I learned structure and discipline that influence me to this day. I stayed at Faith Farm for almost four months, and they were the best four consecutive months of my childhood.
Twenty-two
DIDN’T SHE ALWAYS COME BACK?
MY LAST DAY AT FAITH FARM GROUP HOME, JULY 15, 1987, was bittersweet. Mama had left Tim and wanted me to come home; that was the good news. The bad news, of course, was that I was leaving my closest relationships in the world again. I knew I would miss the kids, but I had also come to appreciate the staff at Faith Farm, recognizing that some of them genuinely cared for me and had poured their lives into trying to help me survive for the past four months.
The day of my departure, the entire staff and all the kids gathered around the wooden dining table to share ice cream and apple pie. We laughed about our experiences and took Polaroid pictures.
Mama was present, along with Penny, a dyed-blonde, older teenager Mama introduced as the niece of a friend. I’d never before met Penny, but she was cute so that was enough of an explanation for me. Besides, I was focused on saying my final good-byes to everyone.
There were lots of hugs and even a few tears at my “victory” party. I had lived at Faith Farm for fifteen weeks and a day. Although it had taken me a while to adapt, I’d grown to love Faith Farm. I recognized that it was going to be difficult to make the transition back to life outside, especially since I still had a lot of trust and anger issues toward Mama percolating within me. But I loved her, and love gave me hope that someday she might change. Unfortunately, my love for her also enabled her to mistreat me.
MAMA, PENNY, AND I DROVE AWAY FROM THE PEACE AND order of Faith Farm to a small house in a gully on Maine Street in Bessemer City, where Mama introduced me to her new boyfriend, Harvey. I wasn’t surprised that she had already hooked up with another man. Mama always had to have a man.
Harvey seemed to be a nice guy, but I had thought Tim was pretty nice, too, when I first met him. I could not have dreamed of the potential evil within Tim. Now I could, so I was cautious around Harvey.
I settled into the back bedroom in the far corner of the small house. Later that night I realized why Penny was staying the night. Mama intended her to be a sort of welcome-home-gift to me.
Anytime Mama had been released from prison, the first thing she did was find herself a man. Since Mama perceived me as being a prisoner who had just been released, she assumed I needed sex. It was a long night with a very short ending. I didn’t even know Penny’s last name.
The transition back to Mama’s lifestyle was tougher than I thought it would be. I had no plans, no dreams, goals, or purpose. I spent every day trying to figure out what I should do next. There were no weekend trips to the beach or going to church and watching 60 Minutes every Sunday night, as I’d done at Faith Farm. Although I probably wouldn’t have admitted it—and may not even have realized it yet—what I missed most was the structure in my life that Faith Farm had helped me establish. I missed someone holding me accountable for my actions. I missed group meetings and Inspection Day, when we cleaned the entire house, all the way down to wiping the baseboards and vacuuming under the couch.
In some ways I did feel like a prisoner, recently released from prison, who didn’t know how to function in a society that had no structure. The prisoner then becomes depressed and, all too often, finds a way to get back behind those walls, where he feels safe.
I had nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no discernable reason to be alive. So I plunged into a deep depression. Fortunately, Harvey owned a lawn mower, and he allowed me to use it. I kept busy trying to earn some money by mowing lawns.
ON THE EVENING OF AUGUST 8, 1987, I RETURNED HOME after working in the neighborhood all day, mowing lawns. I rolled the push-mower down the hill of our yard and parked it under the porch, as I always did.
Just then Mama rushed out the front door, carrying a large bundle of her clothes in her arms. I could tell by the look on her face that something was wrong. It was the same look she had the night she left Carroll.
“Mama, where ya going?” I asked.
“I don’t have to tell you where I’m going,” she snapped, as she headed up the hill toward an old Ford Galaxy she had picked up somewhere. Mama tossed all her clothes in the backseat and slid behind the wheel of the car.
I ran up the hill, reaching the driver’s side window just as she turned the ignition key, frantically asking her again, “Mama, where ya going?” She didn’t reply; she stomped down on the gas pedal and the car roared away.
I ran back to the house, calling out for Harvey. He wasn’t there, but he returned home shortly afterward. I could see the sadness in his eyes when I told him about the way Mama left. He was determined to find her.
Harvey and I got in his car and headed to Belmont, a short drive away, to where Mama and I had been living prior to my going to Faith Farm. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. Harvey turned by the Stowe textile mill and slowly drove down Belmont Avenue toward the house of Tim Allen’s sister, Kay.
Mama was standing in the yard with Tim. Oh no! I thought. Not again. Sure enough, just as I had suspected, Mama had gone back to Tim.
Harvey stopped the car in the middle of the street, stared at Mama and Tim for a few seconds, and then slammed the car in reverse. He knew. He backed up, turned the car around, and without saying a word to Mama or Tim, he drove to Gastonia and pulled into a parking lot with a phone booth on the corner. He parked the car beside the phone booth, handed me a quarter, and asked me to call Mama.
I had no idea what I might say to her, but I stepped inside the grimy metal-and-glass phone booth, put Harvey’s quarter in the slot, and dialed Kay’s number.
A male voice answered, “Hello?” It was Tim.
“Is Mama there?” I asked.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” he said, then hung up the phone.
Probably to discourage me from calling back, Tim picked up the receiver again and laid it on the coffee table beside the phone. He didn’t realize I was still on the line; I had not disconnected, so I could still hear Tim and Mama talking and laughing in the background. I stood in that phone booth and listened. I screamed again and again for Mama to pick up the phone, but she never did. I knew what that meant.
For a long moment I couldn’t move. Cars whizzed past as I stood in the filthy phone booth, staring through the hazy glass, smeared with fingerprints, spit, and tobacco juice. Thoughts of Mama having fun with Tim tormented me. I wondered if she knew I was on the phone, listening to her giddy behavior and raunchy talk.
When I could no longer endure listening to them, with tears streaming down my face, I hung up the receiver, yanked open the rickety folding door, walked out of the phone booth, and flopped down in the front seat of the car.
“Did you talk to her?” Harvey asked. I told Harvey what had happened, and he asked no more questions. He merely shook his head sadly, cranked up the car, and drove back to Bessemer City.
A week went by, and Mama still hadn’t returned. Other kids and their families were getting ready for schools to open s
oon, buying new clothes, getting their backpacks stocked and ready, but I had nowhere to go. I was lonely and depressed, and part of me even began envying the kids in Grace Group Home, a foster care home one block away and across the street. I could see its back door and the kids going in and out of the house.
Some friends of mine from Faith Farm, Tia and Raymond, had been transferred to Grace, so I stopped over to visit them. Seeing them reminded me of all that I was missing. I never thought that I’d want to go back to a group home, but anywhere was better than being abandoned.
But Mama would be back soon, I felt sure. She always came back. Then she’d leave again or dump me off with somebody. But she always came back.
NOT THIS TIME. AFTER A FEW WEEKS IT BECAME INCREASINGLY obvious that Mama wasn’t coming back, so Harvey decided to move on with his life. Nevertheless, he was concerned about me and wanted to make sure I had a place to live before he moved away from Bessemer City. Ironically, a man I had known only a short time, who had been shacking up with my mother when I met him, was more concerned about my well-being than my mom. Despite his faults, Harvey was a good man.
One afternoon he said to me, “My sister would like to meet you.” Harvey’s sister was older than him, in her midsixties. We went to her house in south Gastonia, and I spent the entire day with Harvey’s sister and her husband. It was an awkward visit and felt more like a job interview.
When Harvey had said, “My sister wants to meet you,” he had conveniently omitted, “to see if she and her husband like you.” But I understood. I had read somewhere that back in the 1880s, immigrant orphans were loaded on trains in New York City and transported west. The train stopped at depots in small towns along the way. At every stop the orphans stood outside by the train as ranchers sized them up, pinching their arms and checking their teeth to see if they were healthy enough to work on the farms. When a rancher found an orphan to his liking, he gave the child a home in exchange for work.