A Chance in the World

by Steve Pemberton

  These institutions and people were all important to me, giving me what I needed most: a sense of connection to something greater than myself. But what was their history, I could not make mine. More than anything else, that was what I wanted: my own story, my own history, my own home to return to—not that of the Jesuits, or of the fraternity, or of Tim’s or Alicia’s families.

  Though I was free I was not yet home, and so my quest to find my past would return again and again in the years to come, like a lighthouse beacon that flashes bright and then fades only to return again. And ultimately, like that lighthouse beacon, it would have the power to guide and to save.

  CHAPTER 24

  One bitterly cold January night during my senior year, the telephone rang. I was putting some books in my backpack for a trip to the library, and I used my free hand to pick up the phone. The caller was a female adult, but I couldn’t recognize her voice; it seemed weak and far away. “Hello, is Steve there?”

  “Yes, this is Steve, but I’m sorry, I’m having a hard time hearing you.”

  The voice, slightly agitated, was stronger now. “Can’t you hear me?” There was no mistaking who it was: Betty Robinson, of all people. She was calling to see how I was doing—or so she said. She had never called me before, never been interested in my well-being, not while I was with her nor after I left. I sensed another purpose and was immediately on guard. In the background, I could hear beeping and a faint voice coming over an intercom.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “In the hospital.” There was an uncomfortable pause on the line.

  “In Boston.” That meant it was serious.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed and placed my backpack on the floor. “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s going on?”

  “I’m not doing that well.” Another pause. “You didn’t leave here the best way, you know.”

  I grew angry, but sensing the seriousness of her condition, I tried to measure my words. “It was the best way for me.”

  “You wanted to get out in dem streets, be free and live how you wanted to live.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Was this the reason she was calling? To tell me that? I stood up, and now I had no intention of disguising my feelings. “You were always wrong about me. You always said I’d be no good, but you were wrong then, and you’re wrong now.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It sure is. And it always was.”

  I was going to say more—that I had made it to college after all, that I was succeeding here, that others had seen in me what she never could. But I stopped, knowing that I had nothing to prove to her.

  She sighed, a deep heavy exhaling of air that told me she had been in considerable pain and was tired. Another series of electronic beeps came over the line. I recalled my last conversation with her when I told her that God was going to take care of her for what she and her family had taken from me. But the intervening years and my own deepening faith had given me a different perspective; her judgment, be it reprisal or forgiveness, was to be left in God’s hands, not mine. He would decide.

  There was another long silence, and for a brief moment I thought she had hung up. “Well, you take care then,” she said. The line went dead, and I dropped the phone back in the cradle. I stared at it for a long while. Then I stood up, put on my coat, and slung my backpack over my shoulder. I opened the door of my room and stepped into the hallway. The door was heavy and swung closed behind me, the lock clicking in the latch. Whether Betty Robinson was calling to apologize, say goodbye, or reaffirm her position, I never knew. A week later, while presiding over a meeting at my fraternity, I received word that Betty Robinson had died of complications from diabetes. She was fifty-three years old.

  CHAPTER 25

  As a child growing up with the Robinsons, I had spent a lot of time looking in the mirror, trying to discern whatever secrets about myself I could. On the morning of May 22, 1989, my college graduation, I spent a good hour in my room, adjusting my cap and gown. The person looking back at me from the mirror was far different from the shy, inexperienced, and uncertain adolescent who had entered college four years before. There was a stride in my walk now, a quiet confidence that came from having traveled a most unconventional path to the glorious morning that waited right outside my front door.

  The mirror still held secrets. The blond tints were still there, though less noticeable than before. My last name, Klakowicz, felt more foreign to me than ever. I still tilted my head when I listened to people. As I often had during the past few years, I shook my head to clear the fog. I didn’t want to deal with all this now. I had put away these nagging questions, imposed my will on them, forcing them into a mental drawer labeled “For Further Review.” On this day, though, they’d come back as never before because, while everybody else had family members who’d come to wish them well, I had nobody.

  The campus was awash in the colors and sounds of commencement. Flowers of different shades and hues encircled trees that sat magnificently on perfectly manicured lawns. Maroon and gold balloons hung from light posts, twisting and turning in the light breeze. Off in the distance, I heard the strains of a commencement song, often interrupted by the ringing of bells from Gasson Tower. Beaming parents, radiant grandparents, and awestruck younger siblings all hovered around my classmates, marking this day in the annals of their families’ histories. Several times, fellow classmates asked me to serve as an impromptu photographer. The families huddled together, and through the camera lens I saw those boundless, timeless human connections, the overflowing smiles, the pride. “Thank you,” they said, and I handed back their cameras, wished them luck, and continued on my way. Within a few steps they had almost certainly forgotten about me, but images of their families remain in my mind to this day.

  We walked into Alumni Stadium in our black caps and gowns, barely noticing the blistering heat. Classmates around me shielded their eyes from the sun and scanned the stands, trying to locate their families. When we were all in place, a hush fell over the stadium. Jonathan Kozol— award-winning activist, educator, author, and native Bostonian—rose to give the commencement address. In a solemn voice he reminded us that there remained tremendous suffering in our country, hardships that we sons and daughters of this great Jesuit institution were uniquely qualified to address. Noting the 500,000 homeless children in this country, he said, “These children have done nothing wrong. They committed no crime. Their only crime is to have been born poor in a rich nation.” A thoughtful murmur arose in the stadium, and I nodded my head in complete understanding. All children belong to somebody, I thought. Or at least they should.

  After the ceremony, I headed to the student athletic center to attend the individual diploma ceremonies for the College of Arts and Sciences. The heat in the building was oppressive, the air heavy and thick. Because of my last name and the way the ceremony was organized, I sat in the back and would be among the last to receive my diploma. For more than an hour, I watched scenes of family bliss that I could only dream about.

  For each of my fellow students, a small herd of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and siblings clapped and bellowed their appreciation. They called out to my classmates and snapped photos. I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead and read the commencement program over and over because I knew that if I looked back for even a second, the wave of emotions I was holding inside would certainly wash over me. I’d never allowed myself to feel self-pity, and today, graduation day, was not the time to start. As the names got closer to mine, however, so did the hard truth: there would be no roar of celebration for me. John Sykes was immersed in finals, and travel would have been too difficult for the elder Sykeses. Though I couldn’t remember either of my parents, I missed them more on this day than on any other.

  My classmate Debbie Henderson sat next to me, her family directly behind us. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. Debbie’s mother tried to hold back tears as she wished me congratulations. Her awareness that I was alone moved me, a
nd for a brief moment I forgot the overwhelming feeling of loss. Then my name was called, and I ascended the stage to receive my diploma from the dean. On the way back to my seat, I stared at the regal lettering and my last name so elegantly embossed on the sheepskin. Another, quite strange, thought arose then: The reason I have never been comfortable with the Klakowicz surname is because this is not my real last name.

  After the graduation, as the final snapshots were taken and the graduates slipped off to dinner or parties with their families, I made my way back to my dormitory. I pulled open the heavy brown door and noticed a sign taped to it: “All students must depart by 4:00 p.m.” I let out a long, slow breath of air.

  My footsteps echoed in halls that hours earlier had bustled. I packed my remaining belongings, thinking about the day’s events. Where was I going? In the short term I’d return to New Bedford to work for the Upward Bound Program, as I had the previous few summers. But what about after that?

  As I zipped up my suitcases and piled them in a corner, the thought that had gnawed away at me suddenly took hold: in order to develop any real direction in my adult life, I’d need to learn where I had come from and to whom I belonged. All children belong to someone, I thought once again, and that includes those who have been left to the whims of chance.

  Trying to find my family was going to be difficult. Yet I had always found safe harbor in the person I believed God had made me, in my strength, my resilience, my competitive nature, and my loyalty toward others. I may not have had a family, but I did have that. And that would be enough. Whatever was out there to learn would be easy to handle compared to the hardships I’d already endured or the persistent shadow of knowing nothing at all.

  Or so I thought.

  I put the last of my boxes into my rented U-Haul and turned around to look one last time up and down Commonwealth Avenue. I was going to miss Boston College. My dorm had been right at the foot of Heartbreak Hill, named for the punishing inclines that challenged marathoners each spring during the Boston Marathon. The humidity had finally eased. A long white string, likely from a balloon that had long since left its mooring, blew about a tree. I stood there for a moment strangely entranced, wondering which way the wind was going to blow the string next. Then I started the truck, shifted into drive, and began the long trip back to New Bedford.

  CHAPTER 26

  I didn’t begin probing into my family background right away. The summer after graduation in 1989, I returned to the Upward Bound Program in Dartmouth, Massachusetts, and threw myself, as usual, into tutoring and counseling work. At summer’s end, I returned to Boston looking for work. The job market was difficult, and I struggled largely because I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I only knew I wanted to make a difference. I took the first job offered me, at an auto-rental company. I wore a shirt and tie on the job, but that was where the professionalism ended. The pay was terrible, and I barely had any money left each month for food. All day long I towed rental cars, fought traffic, washed cars, and ruined my clothes with dirt and oil. It was humbling work and a far cry from the meaningful career I had envisioned. In the summer of 1990, I left the auto-rental company to return yet again to Upward Bound’s six-week summer residential program.

  My dissatisfaction with work was nothing in comparison to the restlessness I was feeling in my personal life. The summer after college, my longtime girlfriend, Alicia, had stunned me by abruptly ending our relationship. I was too reliant on her and her family, she said, and she wanted “space.” She was there one day, and then the next she was gone, disappearing from my life so quickly I wondered if she had been there at all. With her went her mother, with whom I was especially close. Though I had seen difficult times, her departure brought a new kind of pain. I suddenly lost my bearings, struggling to find the fighting determination that had long been my hallmark.

  Holidays came and went that first year after Alicia’s departure, and I found myself in my small apartment, quietly asking the one question I had not dared ask before: What had I done wrong? I had survived the Robinsons and graduated from one of the country’s best universities, and my reward seemed to be this disconnected life. When would I feel as if I belonged to something? To someone?

  The coming months brought closure to the end of my relationship with Alicia and in time I would come to see it as a blessing. Though I was grateful to her for the time we had spent, the suddenness with which I became an outsider reminded me again of the importance of having your own family. And therein was my problem. For years I had been trying to replace my family. Everything had fallen short and would continue to, I suspected, until I found the place I had come from. Yet I had no idea where to begin.

  I turned again to Mrs. Dottin, asking to speak with her one day after our daily morning staff meeting. I sat down in the chair next to her desk. Behind her, through a ceiling-to-floor glass window, you could see clear across campus. I fidgeted with my hands, not knowing where to begin.

  “Why don’t you just jump right in,” she said, peering at me over the top of her glasses. Her calmness and quiet manner had always belied an amazingly perceptive mind.

  I took a deep breath. “Mrs. Dottin, I’ve been wondering about my parents. I have no idea who they are or where they are. Most people in the situations I was in had someone, Mrs. D, but I had no one. And I want to know why.”

  “Did you ever think that there are some things you are not meant to know?”

  I bobbed my head slowly. “I have, Mrs. D.”

  “And?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  My response was immediate. “And I refuse to accept it.”

  She laughed and reached over to pat my hand. “Steve, that is why you have become the young man you are. That and, of course, a few blessings from on high.”

  I smiled, nodding my head in agreement. Ruby Dottin never failed to remind me how blessed I was.

  “Do you know anything at all?”

  “Not much, except what Betty Robinson told me when I was a boy.” I recounted Betty’s description of my father, my search at the library, and my subsequent conclusion that Kenny Pemberton was not my father.

  She sat back in her chair. “You were quite the little investigator, weren’t you?”

  I laughed, recalling just how much of a detective I had fancied myself as a boy. “I sure was. I thought I could solve the mystery of my heritage the same way the Hardy Boys so often solved mysteries. But I never did.”

  Now my tone became more serious. “When you don’t know, it’s a weight on your soul. And I’ve carried this weight my entire life. I want to put it down.”

  She eyed me for a long moment. “I do know, Steve. I never knew my father, and it bothered me until I finally realized that I simply wasn’t meant to know. But that answer isn’t going to work for you, I can see that.” She leaned forward, and I shifted my backpack on my shoulder, as if moving it would allow me to hear her better. “Here’s what I can tell you. The person Betty described to you was Kenny Pemberton. There was nobody else who met an end like that. But I don’t know if he was your father. I do know he came from a big family, lots of brothers and sisters, and if he is your father, I am sure one of them would know. Come to think of it, we have a speaker coming to talk to the kids tomorrow during the life skills class. I am almost certain he knew Kenny. I can ask him if you like.”

  I accepted her offer, but I still did not believe there was a connection. As Mrs. Dottin had rightly pointed out, Kenny had come from a large family, and certainly someone would have known about me. Besides, I had done my own sleuthing years before, and the answer seemed clear and definitive. The fighter who had died so tragically was not my father.

  The next day, several of my students burst into my classroom, breathless. “Steve, you have to come over to building 1A. There’s a man over there who says he knew your father.”

  I nodded; this must be the speaker Mrs. Dottin had referred to. “Okay, guys, I’ll be right there.” I took my time putting my books and papers in my bac
kpack. I was in no particular rush to hear something I already knew wasn’t true.

  “No, you have to come now,” they said, pulling me by the arm. “He saw a picture of you and everything!”

  That piqued my curiosity. I turned the classroom over to my assistant, and the students and I walked across the campus to the life skills class. I found a well-dressed African American man of average height standing before a blackboard. He was dark complexioned and wore a neatly groomed mustache. Like a student late to class, I tried walking to the back of the room so as not to disturb his lecture. But all heads turned in my direction. Caught in the act, I reversed direction to greet him. In the few strides it took to get to where he was standing, I could see a look of familiarity cross his face, as if he knew who I was. The room was silent save the gentle rustling of the blinds.

  He held out his hand to me, and I accepted it. “So you’re Kenny Pemberton’s son. I’m Russell Almeida. I use to spar with your father.”

  There was certainty in the way he said “your father,” so I rushed to correct him. “Mr. Almeida, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve seen a picture of Kenny Pemberton, and he is not my father. We don’t look anything alike.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the students turning their heads from left to right as if watching a tennis match.