A Chance in the World

by Steve Pemberton

  I sat up straight in my chair. “Mike, I have an idea. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth trying.” I leaned forward and put my hand on the desk. “There’s a teacher in the Upward Bound Program, a Mr. Sykes. When Betty Robinson tried to remove me from the program, Mr. Sykes and another counselor refused her request.” I didn’t mention it to Mike, but I remembered a specific comment Sykes had made to the other counselor as I walked away: “I don’t have any children, but if I did I would want my son to be just like Steve.”

  Mike leaned forward. “Do you know where he works?”

  “At the college.* But I really doubt he’s there; it’s school vacation.”

  “Can’t hurt to try,” Mike said, picking up the phone. He called information and asked for the Upward Bound Program. I could hear the phone dialing. “Hi, Mr. Sykes. My name is Mike Silvia, and I’m a caseworker at the Department of Social Services. I have a client here, Steve Klakowicz, who has spoken very highly of you. Steve was removed from his foster home today and needs a place to stay for a few days while we sort out his living situation. Is that possible?”

  I rocked gently in my seat, tossing up a silent prayer. I needed this to work. This was it, my last option. Mike held the phone to his ear, and I studied him for any telltale sign that Mr. Sykes was saying yes. Suddenly he switched the phone to his left hand and began to scribble on a piece of paper. “I see, I see,” Mike said. “Well, it would only be for a few days, and I don’t think Steve would mind, not after what he’s been through today.” He talked for a moment longer, twirling his pencil in his hand. “Okay, okay.” Then he put the pencil down and shot me a thumbs-up. I let out a huge sigh of relief. For a moment I forgot all about the day’s events, the Robinsons, and my injuries. Though my ribs ached, I exhaled deeply. It was the season of giving, and I had received the greatest gift of all: freedom, and, finally, a place to go.

  * Southeastern Massachusetts University.

  CHAPTER 18

  Southeastern Massachusetts University,* where we a rrived twenty minutes later, is ordinarily a beautiful campus. But on this overcast afternoon, as Mike and I waited in a large parking lot for Mr. Sykes to appear, its 1960s-era gray, hulking buildings seemed to blend into the gloomy, sunless sky. That was the second thing I observed. The first was the complete absence of activity. The school, then largely a commuter college, was closed for the holidays. There was simply no one there, except Sykes, a conscientious counselor who had come in on his day off to catch up on paperwork. To this day he insists he was meant to be there.

  Sykes sauntered down the walkway, backpack slung over his shoulder. He was in his late thirties and far and away the most popular teacher in the Upward Bound Program. Outrageously funny and rebellious, he was a perfect fit for teenagers in varying stages of their own defiance. That he was white, wore his hair long, loved Harley-Davidsons, and listened to country music never mattered much to the African Americans, Cape Verdeans, and Latinos who dominated the program. We admired his passion for teaching, his witty intellect, and his love of learning. There was no greater joy than when one of his students “got it,” as he liked to say.

  We exchanged handshakes. If Mr. Sykes was alarmed by my physical appearance, he gave no sign. Mike and Mr. Sykes, who now insisted that I call him John, spent a few minutes talking while I hoisted the green garbage bag out of Mike’s pickup truck and into John’s weathered green Volvo. The wind picked up, blowing about the few remaining autumn leaves. As they talked, I warmed my hands with my breath and watched the hibernating campus. Though I had been here many times as a student in the Upward Bound Program, it looked different to me, though I didn’t quite know why.

  “Good news, Steve,” Mike said, a smile on his face. “You can stay with John through the holidays. That will give me time to find a more permanent place for you. Don’t worry, I’ll cook something up.”

  Mike and I said good-bye, and I got into Mr. Sykes’s car. It was completely dark outside. John started the car and revved the Volvo’s engine. “So, Mr. Syk . . . er, John, where do you live?” I asked.

  “Westport. Do you know where that is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s about twenty minutes from here, going toward Horseneck Beach. It’s not the city, that’s for sure, but I think you’ll like it. And do me a favor, will ya? Please don’t call me sir. Makes me feel as if we’re in the military. And I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want either one of us.”

  I laughed, the first time I laughed that day. I had never gone much beyond New Bedford or the university campus. As we turned left out of the campus and away from New Bedford, a fleeting thought entered my mind, one I had first learned from the pages of Mrs. Levin’s books:

  There are other ways that people live in this world. And I would now get a chance to discover them for myself.

  * The college is now called UMass-Dartmouth.

  CHAPTER 19

  John was right: Westport wasn’t the city. The trip to this quaint New England farming village was all two-lane roads with no streetlights in between. Headlights from an occasional passing car penetrated the darkness. Through that dimness I could see the outlines of the roofs of houses but little else. Had the day not been so wrought with strain and tension, I would have been struck by how eerily similar this trip was to another I had taken on a cold day in December some thirteen years earlier. But I was too overwhelmed with relief to make the connection.

  Several miles later, we pulled into a gravel driveway, our tires crunching the stones underneath. More crunching followed as I stepped out of the Volvo and placed my feet firmly on the ground. I could see the outline of a small ranch-style house, easy to spot because there weren’t any other houses around. We went inside, got settled, and a half hour later sat down to a deliciously terrible meal of half-baked chicken croquettes and instant potatoes. As it was almost nine o’clock, we then discussed where I was going to sleep. The room that adjoined John’s was out—too small. We decided on an old cot he had stored in his basement.

  As we lugged the dusty green thing up to the living room, one of the legs almost came off. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease John. “Hey, John,” I said, blowing off the dust, “did you use this cot at the Battle of Gettysburg or the Battle of Little Big Horn?”

  He grabbed some duct tape to fix the legs. “I used it in both battles, if you really want to know.”

  “I thought Custer and all his men died in that battle.”

  “All of ’em did, except me,” he said, pointing an exaggerated thumb at his chest.

  “How did you escape?”

  “I got out early. I always knew Custer was an idiot.”

  We both laughed.

  I looked around; John’s living room was sparse, to say the least. Three curtainless windows looked out onto the two-lane country road. In one corner an old television set with rabbit ears rested on a large lobster crate. In another, a radio sitting on a shelf gave off the faint sounds of holiday music. A small coffee table occupied the center of the room, a cribbage table its centerpiece, and nearby sat the largest piece of furniture, an ugly green couch that had seen better days.

  We moved the furniture around, making space for the cot. “I’m glad to be here, John,” I said. “Really glad. Thanks a lot.”

  He nodded. “Me, too, Steve.” He began to turn away and then stopped. He paused for a moment before he spoke. “You’re going to be okay here. I promise.”

  I offered a faint smile in return, still not convinced of this.

  He went into his bedroom, and the door clicked gently behind him. I turned off the standing lamp and lay back on the cot. A half-moon illuminated the world outside my window. I could make out the faint outlines of trees that seemed to stretch on for miles. I heaved a big sigh. For the first time all day, I was alone with my thoughts. There was very little sound except that of an occasional lonesome car swishing down the country road, headlights blending in with the moonlight. The first few times a car approached, I bolted to the
shadows of the makeshift bedroom, thinking it possible that Willie or Reggie had somehow followed me here. But the car always eventually passed, and after a while—after a long while—I started to believe that they would not find me in this faraway place.

  CHAPTER 20

  Meditation and water are wedded forever.

  —HERMAN MELVILLE, MOBY DICK

  I did not sleep on my first night of freedom. Today, even after all these years, I have trouble expressing the overwhelming sense of liberation that coursed through my soul on that moonlit night. Had I really managed to escape the Robinsons? This did not seem possible. But sure enough, when I returned to school after the holiday break, I had a new home and a new outlook on life and its possibilities. After a few weeks together, John had invited me to stay with him permanently and finish high school; and the Department of Social Services had consented to the arrangement. My task now was to heal old wounds as best I could and try to focus on two important tasks: enjoying life as a teenager and getting myself into the college of my dreams, Boston College.

  Given what I had been through, I adjusted remarkably well to my new classmates and to life as a teenager. While living with the Robinsons, I hadn’t been allowed to go out during my free time or take part in extracurriculars; relationships with peers were relegated to what I could manage in the space of forty-five-minute lunch periods. Now, high school blossomed into something that better resembled traditional American adolescence. To be sure, I never talked with any of my new friends about what I’d been through; there were vast stretches of my experience that remained my own private business. Yet I could now accept invitations to basketball games, birthday parties, and the mall. For the first time ever, I could have fun.

  I remember my first movie. One Friday night in February, John dropped me off at the North Dartmouth Mall so that I could meet up with two of my classmates, Ray Picard and Kevin Rousseau. All week we had been talking about seeing Footloose, about a group of students who defy a town that will not allow them to dance. I was transfixed by the sights and sounds of the big screen—especially the movie’s final scene, in which the teenagers take to the dance floor as if they were freedom personified. Later that evening, Ray, who had recently gotten his driver’s license, drove me back to John’s house on Horseneck Road. One slight problem: I had forgotten John’s address. We drove around for the better part of an hour, relying on my rather shaky sense of direction. Eventually we did find it, but not before taking an involuntary tour of Westport’s seemingly endless country roads.

  Making friends became even easier as I became involved in school activities. I joined the track team and immediately became one of the conference’s best sprinters and jumpers. I ran anchor on the relay in large part because I loved to chase people down and would go to almost any lengths to do it. I also joined the yearbook staff and became one of its editors. I had a great time making friends and finding activities I could excel in. It was, I suspect, a leadership ability that I’d always had but that I was now free to express.

  When I wasn’t doing sports or attending club meetings, I was beginning to explore relationships with girls. During my senior year, I began a relationship with Alicia, a wonderful young woman from New Bedford’s South End. She was cute and sincere and, perhaps most of all, always able to see the good in others. Soon I found myself lost in the comfort of a first love. As the months passed, the relationship became an anchor for me. I’d always been cautious in all relationships, and it often took me a long time to trust anyone. But Alicia’s grace and care for me lowered those walls of defense, and I eventually became convinced that she would not let me down.

  During this time, however, my main preoccupation was academics. I knew, as I had always known, that a lot rode on attending college. My desire to attend college had driven me more than anything else to risk all in escaping the Robinsons, and I was not going to let anything, or anyone, get in my way. I had strengths in the classroom, including the ability to think quickly, honed from years of daily battles for survival. I’d decided in middle school that I was going to Boston College, and the intervening years had not changed that.

  At least now I didn’t have to fight the Robinsons for time to study or suffer their disparagement when I read a book. On the contrary, I enjoyed the consistent support not only of John but also of his parents, Theresa and John Sykes II. When I first met them, Theresa wrapped me in a long embrace without saying a word. Behind me, I could hear her husband teasing her in his gentlemanly tone: “Give the boy some air, Tree.” He was a twinkle-eyed older version of his son, standing as erect as when he had been a soldier. After his wife let me go, he took both my hands in his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, young man.” Never before had I been welcomed and loved so immediately and unreservedly.

  Some of my fondest memories from this period are of times when John and I swung by his parents’ house in Dartmouth, one town over from New Bedford, to say hello and visit. The four of us sat for hours around the kitchen table, talking about the Red Sox and Celtics, my experiences in school, and my college plans. (John’s parents knew how I had come to live with their son, but we rarely spoke of it, except in general terms.) Our meals together were lengthy affairs, for Grandma Sykes insisted on stuffing us with baked chicken and rice, garden salad with tomatoes picked right from her garden, homemade soup, and nearly every vegetable imaginable. “Have to keep my boys fed,” she would say.

  After we ate, we settled in the adjoining living room. John and I read, Grandma Sykes fidgeted around the two of us, and Grandpa John sat in his chair, staring out the window, eyes twinkling, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. One day after a fine family meal, I noticed a picture the Sykeses had hung on their living room wall, right next to a picture of John. I did a double take to make sure my eyes had not betrayed me. That was indeed a picture of me. I wore a brown sweater and plaid shirt and was clearly in need of a fashion lesson. But the Sykes had hung me on their wall anyway.

  The Robinsons had never taken pictures of me, let alone added them to their family album. I had never been woven into the fabric of a family, and it now felt odd. The moment of confusion barely registered before I was overcome by the Sykeses’ kindness. I stared at it long and hard, still not completely sure that I had been so unequivocally accepted.

  And yet, for all the warmth and positive growth I experienced, I was never truly free of the Robinsons. I awoke often in the middle of the night, tormented by a recurring dream: I have left the tail-wagging Doberman pinscher and garbage-filled front yard and am running toward downtown New Bedford, taking the strategic route I believed would keep me out of the sight of Willie’s all-seeing eye. Anxiety and fear threaten to swallow me, but if I can just get to the Department of Social Services, I will be safe. This comforting thought vanishes amid the roar of Willie’s yellow and brown station wagon. He is driving up hard behind me. I jump off the sidewalk and skirt through a backyard that will carry me over to the next block. As I emerge from the backyard, Willie is waiting for me. His window is rolled down, and his shotgun, the one he used to kill rabbits with deadly efficiency, is pointed right at me.

  Nor was I freed from endless thoughts about the birth family I’d never known, especially on my frequent, solitary bike rides around the area. During the warm months, I got up at 6:00 a.m., hopped on the light-blue ten-speed bike I’d bought by saving up the weekly allowance John gave me, and rode down the several miles to Horseneck Beach. The sky was a beautiful light pink, tinged with orange. There was virtually no traffic, and save the humming of my wheels on the pavement, it was totally quiet on Horseneck Road. No matter how often I rode this route, I found myself transported back to an earlier era in rural America: stone walls, open fields, and quaint farmhouses dotted the landscape, and only the presence of towering telephone lines signaled that modernity had not completely escaped the countryside town of Westport.

  A mile into my ride, a large, gray-shingled, abandoned farmhouse appeared in the middle of a grassy field.
In the middle of its roof was a cavernous hole so large you could a drive a car through it. I always slowed to look; this structure, too, had its story. Then, driven by a voiceless urge and with a single, backward glance, I burst into furious sprints of speed, my legs churning, my lungs screaming in the cool morning air. A passerby might have taken me for an aspiring cyclist prepping for a triathlon rather than what I was—a young boy trying to pedal away years of pain and loss.

  At the end of Horseneck Road, right where it turned into East Beach Road, the miles of bucolic farmland suddenly yielded to the powerful sea, a breathtaking picture only nature could create. Right at the intersection of the two roads was a small inlet. No sunbathers came here; the multitudes of rocks made it impossible. I leaned my bike against the large, yellow, weather-beaten “turn left” road sign and strolled down to where the rocks ended and the sea began. Off in the distance, endless water met God-brushed sky, the only interruption Elizabeth Island, the small island off of Cuttyhunk known as the final resting place of the Wanderer, the last whaling ship to leave New Bedford. Oftentimes the wind would howl off the water, creating ferocious gusts of turbulent air that threatened to knock me over. Yet if I faced it and dug my heels into the rocky soil, I found I could withstand that wind. And so I stood there, listening to the roaring waves thumping to shore in near perfect cadence, staring at an ocean that appeared as large and mysterious as the past I was trying to understand.

  Morning after morning, my thoughts were the same. During my childhood, I had survived seemingly endless suffering on the unyielding belief that one day my mother and father would come rescue me. They never did. Now that I was free, I faced new questions: Where had I come from? What invisible forces had created my life, my unlikely last name—Klakowicz—and this mystery that was my past? The roiling ocean seemed to answer me. This is your fate. You are never to know. And what did you need them for anyway? You survived without their help. Now you have yourself, and that has to be enough. Morning after morning, with these thoughts still fluttering around in my head, I heaved a deep sigh, got back on my bike, and began the long trek back up Horseneck Road to John’s house.