A Chance in the World

by Steve Pemberton

  Amid all this, Mike Silvia was working furiously on my behalf. He continued to coordinate with the department staff and their attorneys to secure my release. I was growing impatient and called Mike frequently, asking when I would be moved. “It takes time,” he told me. “There are processes we have to go through.”

  “What processes?”

  “You have to undergo a psychological evaluation.”

  “A what? For what? What did I do? These people are starving me, making me sleep with the dog, for crying out loud, and I have to go through a psychological evaluation, like there’s something wrong with me? And only then I can be moved? What kind of system is this?”

  Despite my trepidation, I went through the psychological evaluation on December 15. Although the final summary would not be available for several weeks, the conclusion was that enough immediate evidence existed to justify moving ahead with my release. Freedom date: December 30, 1983. The agency, now fully concerned for my safety, withheld this information from the Robinsons.

  Now all I had to do was hang on. I was terrified that something would happen to affect my release. Maybe Betty would find some new angle to use, or the department would lose its nerve. I was most concerned that one of Betty’s alleged moles would tell her of the agency’s plan. If that happened, there would be nothing to protect me. The possibility that I was going to die seemed very real. I feared Willie would take me hunting and only one of us would return or that some calamity would befall me in the night. I took a broken table leg and carried it to bed with me, prepared to use it against any threat. Sleep was hard to come by. When I did drift off, I jerked awake. Convinced that somebody was attacking me, I jumped up, swinging the table leg. It would be many years before I slept peacefully through the night. Each morning, I awoke exhausted but grateful to be alive, one step closer to freedom.

  December 30 couldn’t come fast enough. The Robinsons continued to find new ways to inflict mental anguish. On Christmas Day, they told me to sit down on the couch in the living room and watch while Willie, Betty, Reggie, and Lisa all opened huge piles of gifts. They went to great lengths to shower each other with holiday spirit— a spirit that pointedly didn’t include me.

  I steeled myself by counting the minutes, hours, and days. I imagined what it would be like to wake up on December 30, knowing that it would be my last day at the house on Arnold Street.

  As it turned out, my face-off with the Robinsons would come sooner than that. Around nine o’clock on the morning of the twenty-eighth, with Willie away on a hunting trip and the rest of the house still fast asleep, I threw caution to the wind and called the Department of Social Services. In hushed tones, I asked Mike if I was still going to see him on the thirtieth. “Yes,” he said.

  “Will I be leaving?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there any chance that this won’t happen?”

  “No, we are absolutely coming to get you.”

  “I’m not sure how much more I can take, Mr. Silvia.”

  “I know, Steve, hang in there, just two more days. Hold on, someone wants to talk to you.”

  It was Heather Pope, who wanted to wish me a Merry Christmas and tell me that I had to hang in there.

  “Thank you, Ms. Pope,” I said. “I have to go now. If they find out I’m talking to you, I’m in serious trouble.”

  Just as I was about to hang up the phone, I heard the phone line on the other end click off suddenly. Oh, no! At some point in my conversation, Betty had picked up the other phone and had been listening in. A high-pitched, bloodcurdling wail came from her bedroom. Reggie burst out of his bedroom and lifted me off the floor by my neck, cutting off my air supply. His eyes were bulging with rage, white spittle flying out of his mouth. He used his weight and size to choke me.

  For a moment I thought, They are going to kill me just as I said they would. But then my thoughts turned to survival. I scratched and clawed at him and then searched around me for anything I could use to hit him. I was losing consciousness. I could hear Betty yelling in the background, but I could not make out her words. Just as I was about to black out, he let go, and I slipped to the floor, collapsing onto my hands and knees. I stayed there, trying to catch my breath.

  “Don’t put any marks on him,” Betty said. It dawned on me that she was giving him permission to continue his assault. He stood over me, trying to figure out how he could hurt me more while leaving no evidence. I sensed his weight shift suddenly, and before I could react, he placed a vicious kick squarely into my ribs, knocking me flat onto my back and taking whatever wind I had managed to gather. He unleashed a flurry of kicks and punches to my face and midsection as I did my level best to cover up. Finally, I heard Betty say, “That’s enough.”

  I staggered to my feet, determined not to give Betty and her attack dog any satisfaction by lying on the ground. “Betcha won’t use the phone anymore to call no social worker,” she said. “Now get in the bathroom and clean yourself up.”

  I limped into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I could hear the sound of my breath, tortured and raggedy. When I raised my head to look in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. I had large welts on my forehead and a long scratch down the side of my face. My lip was gashed, my mouth full of blood. One eye was completely closed. Every breath I drew in hurt where Reggie had punched and kicked me. Through the years I had always managed to fight back by not yelling out in pain, by excelling in school, or by plotting my escape. These small victories, cloaked in silent defiance, were monuments of dignity that I built to protect me from the Robinsons’ brutality. But this beating had stripped me of that. It left me cowering and covering up like an animal.

  There was something else as well: by filing the 51A and pulling off the veneer of the “kind and caring” family, I had revealed their true nature. They would never again be allowed to care for foster children and would lose a source of income. Once Willie got home and heard that I had called the department, we were almost certainly going on a hunting trip, a sojourn only one of us would return from.

  A white-hot, blinding anger arose in me, the first signs of a temper I would struggle to control in future years. I had tried it the Department of Social Services’ way, had filled out their forms. My reward was getting pummeled to within an inch of my life. I spat a crimson stream into the sink and looked in the mirror again. “I will not take this anymore. I am going to do this my way,” I said, to no one in particular. I was going to get away from this house and these monsters— today. But how? There had to be a way.

  Reggie banged on the door, interrupting my conversation. “Hurry up and get out of that bathroom.”

  I opened the door, and he brushed past me, burying an elbow into my ribs, bumping me off stride. He slammed the door behind him.

  By now it was late morning. I had to get outside. That was the first thing. If I did, I would have running room, and they wouldn’t be able to catch me. I’d worry about the “where are you going to go” part later. I glanced over at the garbage can and saw that it was only three-quarters full. I grabbed a pile of newspapers and several bottles off the kitchen counter and stuffed them into the garbage can, tying it so it wouldn’t be apparent that there was more room inside the bag. I went into the bedroom, grabbed my winter coat, put it on, and was about to walk back into the kitchen when I realized that Betty was seated at her perch in the living room watching morning television. If she saw me, she would put an end to my mission right then and there. Yet in walking from the bedroom, through the kitchen, to the front door, I had to walk past her line of sight, roughly twenty feet away. My only hope was that she would be so engrossed in her program that she wouldn’t notice me.

  I stood in the bedroom, ready to bolt, when I heard the sound from the television. It wasn’t a television program but a commercial. Can’t go when commercials are playing because she will definitely see me. I heard the theme music from The Price Is Right and knew that high drama awaited—the moment when Bob Barker announced the newest co
ntestant by saying, “Come on down.” That was my chance. I waited in the bedroom for Barker’s signature call, every muscle in my body tense. There it is . . . wait, wait . . . not too quick or she will see you . . . “Come on down!” . . . okay, go now!

  I emerged from the bedroom, grabbed the bag, took three steps to the front door, put my hand on the golden doorknob, turned it, and— “Where you think you’re going?”

  Betty’s words cut through the air. A bolt of raw fear, sudden and arresting, shot through me. My hand froze on the doorknob. I let it turn back to its normal position. So close!

  “The garbage can is full, ma’am,” I said, trying to keep my tone as flat and even as possible. “I was just going to take it outside.” My words hung in the air, and I stared at my hand, praying that I could just turn that doorknob, just one small turn to the right. Then I would be free.

  The couch squeaked, and Betty emitted grunts of protest. She was getting up! Another surge of fear, greater than the first, washed over me. I removed my hand from the doorknob quickly and slumped my shoulders, trying to give every appearance of being defeated. I gave her a view of the top of my head because if she saw my eyes she would see the purpose they held. I prayed that my emotionless mask would work just this one final time. She shuffled into the kitchen and eyed me. “Take that coat off,” she barked. “Knowing you, you’ll try and run away.”

  You’re right about that, I thought. And then another, more defiant thought occurred to me. You’re in for quite a surprise if you think not having a coat is going to stop me.

  I removed my coat and took it back into the bedroom. Reggie was still in the bathroom, belting out lyrics to Diana Ross’s “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” Betty must have sensed something, because when I came back she was still standing there, those malevolent eyes trying to stare into my soul. I looked at the floor, again giving her a view of the top of my head. “I’m going to stand right here in the front doorway and watch you, just to make sure you don’t run,” she said.

  My mind kicked into another gear as I grabbed the bag, Betty now trailing me. How was I going to get away if she was standing there watching? I opened the front door, and a cold, bone-rattling gust of wind hit me in the face. I glanced over at Rustina, the red Doberman pinscher, who was frolicking around, thinking that I had come outside to feed her. Have to buy time. Think. Think! Got it.

  A couple of weeks earlier, Rustina had gotten loose and torn open a bag of garbage, strewing the contents all over the yard. I’d had to clean it up, but now it gave me an idea. As soon as I turned the corner out of Betty’s sight, I dumped the bag on the ground, using my hand to spread it around while exclaiming loudly, “Oh, no!”

  “What’s your problem?”

  I popped my head back around the corner, making a show of rubbing my bare arms in the bitter cold. I gestured at the mess that lay around me. “Rustina tore open a bag of garbage again, and it’s all over the yard.” I bent down and began picking up coffee grounds and eggshells.

  Saying nothing, she stepped out of the doorway, wrapping the frayed red housecoat around her large frame. Surveying the mess, she said, “All right, but you’d better hurry up. And I’m gonna be watching you right through that window.” She pointed to the window that overlooked the yard, providing a clear view of the front gate and up Arnold Street. She didn’t mean she would be watching me pick up the garbage. She meant that if I tried to flee she would be able to see me.

  The storm door slammed behind her, leaving me wondering just how I was going to get away without her seeing. I resumed picking up garbage off the ground. Looking up briefly, I saw the curtains shift. She was indeed watching me. I glanced at Rustina, chained to the doghouse, who seemed to be pondering my dilemma with me. I glanced around the yard, my eyes finally coming to rest on the garage. Of course.

  The white-bricked garage, which ran right alongside the house on Arnold Street, had been a holdover lot for the auto shop down the street. I had thrown thousands of balls against this structure, nursing dreams of playing center field for the Boston Red Sox. Other times I had sat in its shade immersed in my latest mystery. I had scaled its walls and watched fireworks from its roof. The world always seemed so much bigger from its height, filled with a promise that eluded me. The garage had provided me refuge many times, but that cold, bitter morning it provided me something else: an escape.

  Betty’s eyes bore into me, watching my every move. I could not just up and bolt because she would call the police, charm them as she had almost everyone else, and I would find myself right back here. It occurred to me that if the police did come, my injuries would make my case for me. Then I remembered going to the hospital following the beating with her hairbrush. No, I had to slip away without her knowing. My best option was to head to the Department of Social Services where someone would be willing to help me.

  I continued my task of picking up garbage, but each time I returned to the pile, I moved a bit farther out of her line of sight. She probably thought I was moving farther into the yard, but in fact I was moving closer and closer to my escape. Satisfied that she thought I would keep returning to the pile, I bolted to the northern end of the garage, away from the front door of the house on Arnold Street. Ordinarily I could climb this building with ease, but now a combination of nerves and cold fingers hindered my escape. Several times I lost my grip. Concentrate! Finally, I managed to grab hold and moved around the green drainage pipe. Reaching the top, I lay down on my belly and crawled commando-style across the cinder roof, its rough surface tearing holes in my T-shirt and scraping my skin raw. As soon as I was certain no one from the house could see me, I stood up and moved to the other end. At any minute Betty was going to discover that I was no longer in the front yard. My heart pounded in my chest.

  Climbing down the garage’s other side, I leaped to the ground and paused there, pricking my ears for the sounds of pursuit. I listened for Betty’s voice, expecting her to tear the door open and yell my name. No sound came. I began to run up the street and then stopped dead in my tracks. A car was coming. Was that Willie’s station wagon? I ducked behind a parked car until the vehicle passed.

  The passing car was not Willie’s, but it did alert me to something I had forgotten: when Willie came home, he was almost certainly going to come looking for me, and he would be shrewd enough to head toward the Department of Social Services, located in downtown New Bedford. Rather than going my traditional route, I took a longer way, all the while looking over my shoulder. I received several curious looks from strangers, but no one stopped me.

  About a half hour later, I walked into the lobby of the Department of Social Services, dressed only in a T-shirt and jeans, shivering from a mile-long trek in the cold, battered and bloodied. The young receptionist, troubled by my appearance, recoiled when she first saw me and then hesitated when I asked to see Mike.

  “Please,” I said, as evenly as possible, masking my fury at having to beg. “I really need to see him.”

  “Your name?” she asked.

  “Steve . . . Steve Klakowicz.”

  She picked up the phone, dialed another number, and spoke in hushed tones. I sat down on a chair in the outer office, keeping an eye on the front door. At any moment Willie might come bursting in, shotgun in hand.

  Moments later, Mike opened the door to the outer reception area. His shoulders slumped as soon as he saw my condition. I didn’t make eye contact with him.

  “Geez. Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Not really, Mike.”

  “Are you hurt? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

  To go to the hospital would be to admit that they hurt me. I looked him square in the eye. “No.”

  “Well, at least let me get you some ice.”

  “No,” I said, standing to make my point completely clear.

  Mike eyed me for a long while. Finally, he nodded his head in understanding. “Come with me.”

  His desk was in the middle of an open floor space. All eyes were
on me as we walked. I sat down, and he put his coat around my shoulders. “Would you like something to eat?” Mike asked.

  “I can’t eat right now,” I said, “but if you don’t mind, I would really like something to drink.”

  “Sure, no problem.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to be okay, Steve.”

  How many times had I heard that? “I’m only going to be okay if I get away from them, Mike.”

  “I gotcha,” he said. He handed me a cup of water. I lifted it to my lips shakily. “We’re going to get you out of there, today. I promise.” He picked up the phone and dialed the Robinson home. I could hear the phone ringing on the other end. “Hi, Mrs. Robinson. This is Mike Silvia, Steve’s—”

  Betty’s voice came across the telephone line abruptly: “Steve ran away.”

  “No, he didn’t, Mrs. Robinson. He’s right here. And he’s badly beaten up.”

  “Well, he busted up everything we got him for Christmas,” she said. I grabbed a pen and piece of paper from Mike’s desk and scribbled a note: “Didn’t get anything for Christmas.”

  “Steve says he didn’t get anything for Christmas. Is that true?

  Because the department gave you extra money to provide—”

  Betty cut him off again. “He’s lying! I’ve taken in thirty-nine foster children—”

  Now it was Mike who interrupted, saying evenly, “So if I came by there in the next ten minutes, you’d be able to show me everything you’ve gotten him?”

  The phone was quiet on the other end.

  “Steve has a right to press charges against you and Reggie. But he doesn’t want to do that. He says he just wants to leave your home as soon as possible.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Betty said. “We never wanted him in the first place.”

  Mike turned red and any sense of professional decorum he had tried to maintain vanished. “It’s the other way around,” Mike said, his voice rising. “You don’t deserve him.” His voice got lower then and took on a new intensity. “Now, you have a choice,” he said through clenched teeth. “I can come by with Steve and get his things, or I can bring the police and have you and your son arrested. What’ll it be?”