A Chance in the World

by Steve Pemberton

  Marian promised that the judge would never see her again and that she’d take good care of her children. She kept neither promise. A little more than a year later, in December 1965, exactly one day before her probation was up, she was arrested for disorderly conduct and sentenced to six months in jail. Marc and Joni were taken from her. The harsh confines of prison appeared to have a sobering effect on my mother.

  Conversations with her new caseworker showed a mother desperate to recover her children. “I will get a job as soon as I get out,” she said. “I want my children desperately, and I don’t want to lose any more of their love to foster parents.” She was paroled after several months, and her entire focus became getting Marc and Joni back, but the agency refused until she found a job. For nearly a year she looked for work without success, and her desperation grew deeper. “I miss [my children] terribly, and I will go off the deep end if I don’t get them back.”

  In March 1967, my grandfather called the agency and my mother with his own plan. Although his house was too small for my mother and her two children, he’d secure an apartment nearby and provide her support money. Yet she was strangely undecided about taking advantage of her father’s offer. Some time after that, her social worker went to visit my mother at her apartment. The place was in disarray. The social worker took one look at her, and suddenly everything made sense: the inability to find a job, the refusal of her father’s offer to return home to New Jersey, the long coat she rarely took off. Marian was pregnant again, this time with me.

  My mother knew this pregnancy meant she was going back to jail. She did the only thing she must have felt she could do: she lied. She said Rudolph Klakowicz, her first husband and Ben’s father, was my father. She claimed that she had resumed her relationship with Klakowicz in the fall of 1966 because “it was the best way to get Marc and Joni back.” This wasn’t true. The real father was a rising fighter with an outlaw reputation: Kenny Pemberton.

  The caseworker’s conversation with my mother shortly before I was born showed another looming problem: “Mrs. Klakowicz has had a difficult pregnancy. She said this is the worst one yet. She will not have any more children. She said she would not be surprised if the doctor told her she couldn’t have any more. She told the worker that this baby was going to be a boy. She had prophesized [sic] before and been right. Worker asked her how she was planning to get to the hospital to have the baby. He said that she could go in a taxi. The man downstairs on the second floor offered to take her, but she said that he is colored. She added that he is very nice, but she would not want anyone at the hospital to think that he was the father of the baby.”

  This was little more than a clever smoke screen, intended to hide my father’s race, for she well knew the consequences of revealing his true identity.

  There was no one to deny her story, unless, of course, Rudy showed up in New Bedford, a highly unlikely scenario given that she had not seen him in six years. But amazingly, Rudy did show up, and in the newspaper no less, when he and a friend were arrested for hitchhiking. Concerned that the agency officials would question Rudy, my mother went to the House of Corrections to visit him, and he told her what they both already knew: the unborn baby was not his. Agency officials never had the chance to speak with him, however. He appealed to the judge to let him go, and the judge granted his request, with the caveat that he leave town. He apparently never set foot in the city again. Now, in New Bedford, only Kenny and Marian knew my father’s true identity.

  Rudy’s sudden arrival in New Bedford had been an unwelcome surprise to my mother, I am certain. His exile, though, was also a bonanza because now she could cite his banishment as a reason to get assistance. And she did. “I was simply trying to get my children back. We’ve separated for good, and the marriage is over. I have nowhere to go. Please don’t hold this pregnancy against me.” The agency, convinced of her sincerity, responded with additional assistance. Her father sent her a baby carriage.

  My mother had dealt in secrets and surprises for most of her adult life, but on June 15, 1967, it would be nature’s turn to dole out the unexpected. At 7:19 a.m. I arrived, weighing five pounds twelve ounces. That was expected. What was not expected was the arrival, three minutes later, of my twin sister. The next day my mother called her caseworker, Deborah Chase, at her office to tell her of the twins’ arrival. We did not arrive without complications, however. I was born with six digits on my left hand, and would need surgery to remove the extra finger. My sister would not be as fortunate.

  From the moment she arrived, doctors at St. Luke’s Hospital sensed that something was not right with Starla Louise Klakowicz. After a series of exams, they determined she had a heart condition, and she was immediately transported to Boston. My mother overheard the nurses talking about her baby girl and knew there was little hope. Several operations to save her failed. My sister clung to life for five days before dying of a brain hemorrhage on June 20, 1967. There is no record of a funeral being held for her nor an indication my mother received support of any kind to cope with my sister’s passing.

  My first year of life with my mother appeared to be a trial run to determine whether or not she could handle the demands of motherhood. From the agency’s point of view, she appeared to be making some progress. Still, there was cause for concern. Her apartment was often in poor condition. A caseworker’s unannounced visits in the afternoon would bring the sound of scurrying feet, and only after several long minutes would the door crack half-open, revealing a groggy, half-awake Marian. Random people appeared to be living with her; they hid in a back room when caseworkers came calling. I was still sleeping in a baby carriage, as my mother had not yet purchased a crib. All these factors contributed to the agency’s refusal to grant her wish that Marc and Joni be returned to her.

  By early 1968, however, my mother at least had a steady man in her life. Bernard Cruz, whose offer to take her to the hospital she had refused because of his race, seemed a good provider. Yet it appears that both the agency and my mother overlooked his volatile temper. At one point, when I suffered a broken collarbone, the agency and the police department suspected him of child abuse but declined to investigate further, citing a lack of evidence. The agency believed that Bernard provided enough support to warrant returning Marc and Joni to their mother. On the afternoon of May 10, 1968, after a three-and-a-half-year separation, Marc and Joni were returned to our mother. Later that fall, Marian announced that she and Bernard were expecting a baby, due right around the holidays.

  For the first time ever, my mother appeared to have her life on track. Christmas Eve 1968 was, I imagine, the happiest she had ever been. She had a boyfriend who loved her and whom she loved in return. She was in a clean, new apartment with hardwood floors and central heating. She had furniture, linens, pots and pans, and even a new washing machine. She had been able to buy an artificial Christmas tree that she adorned with ornaments. Wrapped in presents under the tree were new clothes for all three of her children. Her caseworker brought gifts from the agency, as did Marc’s and Joni’s former foster parents, who had kept their old stockings and filled them with toys. Most important, she was prepared for the arrival of this baby.

  Though I was too young to remember, history has taught me there were heady events in 1968: the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, racial protests and demonstrations, riotous anti–Vietnam War confrontations at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, and as the year drew to a close, the first manned spaceflight to leave Earth’s orbit, Apollo 8. The spaceflight had given the country hope after the tumultuous events earlier in the year, and it was fitting that it would be launched just a few days before Christmas.

  My grandfather worked for NASA as a technical writer, and I imagine my mother sat us down to watch the broadcast. I can see us huddled around the television, staring at those grainy, black-and-white images, as close to a family as we had ever been, listening to the Christmas Eve message from the crew of Apollo 8: “In the beginning God c
reated the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.”

  Four days after Christmas, a healthy baby boy arrived. They named him Bernard, after his father. His middle name was Joseph, after Marian’s father, as she had done for her other three sons. In February 1969, the agency closed my mother’s case. They believed she had turned her life around. This turned out to be a disastrous decision, one that would have consequences and repercussions for decades to come.

  A year and a half passed. In July 1970, race riots erupted in New Bedford, in a series of events that would capture national attention. On July 22, 1970, in the midst of the heat and swelter of the riots, the Department of Child Guardianship, now named Department of Social Services, received a telephone call from an irate babysitter. Our mother had paid a babysitter to take care of us for the day. But five days later, she had still not returned. On the fifth day, the babysitter called our mother’s apartment and found her there but with little interest in coming to get us. Instead, she suggested to the babysitter that her children— ages eight, six, three, and two—walk the nearly two miles back to the apartment.

  The Department of Social Services immediately assigned an investigator to the case. When he visited a week later, he found the apartment in deplorable condition. Broken furniture, clothes in trash bags, writing on the walls, and mattresses scattered about the floor all greeted him upon his arrival. I had six stitches on my left foot that appeared to be swollen and infected. Her boyfriend Bernard was nowhere to be found.

  My mother argued with the investigator. “I’ve been out looking for a new home.”

  “Stop using the excuse of wanting to move as the reason for neglecting the house and the children,” he shot back.

  “I’m not neglecting the children,” she retorted. And on they argued.

  The investigator told her he would be back, and when she asked why, he told her it was to be sure he gave the family “a fair assessment.” My mother could read in between the lines of that statement and knew what he was really suggesting: she would lose the children— again. “If you try to take the children, I will move with them out of the state,” she threatened.

  The investigator’s surprise visit and subsequent threats to take her children had little effect. Two weeks after his visit, the agency received another call from a different babysitter, describing a frighteningly similar scenario: she had dropped the children off for the day and then had not returned for five days. Despite the dangers, the agency did not come back for another visit until the first week in October. In detailed notes, the caseworker described what he saw:

  The house was cluttered with dirty clothing. There was a strong unpleasant odor in the house as well as in the hallway. Dirty dishes were piled up on the counters and in the sink. There were eggshells and other undistinguishable [sic] pieces of food remnants cluttered on the table top and on the floor. During this conversation, Mrs. Klakowicz was very defensive in her attitude . . . She held Steve to her side while she leaned on the gas heater. At one point, he turned his back to both workers, exposing a burn about six inches in length, running horizontally between his two shoulders . . . Mrs. Klakowicz expressed hope that all this nonsense of coming to check up on her would stop.

  The shock from reading about our living conditions had barely registered before I received another. Our address was listed in the case file as 11 Lincoln Street. The familiarity of the street had nagged at me when suddenly it hit me—Lincoln Street was in the same neighborhood as Arnold Street, four short blocks away. I had walked past the house countless times, unaware that it was the very place where I had spent my early years with my mother.

  During the next month, the agency tried contacting my mother several times, to no avail. Though they apparently understood the severity of the situation, they did not react with the urgency one might expect. That would all change with a single phone call from a school nurse to the agency on November 6, 1970. My sister, Joni, had been fainting in class for no apparent reason, and my mother did not seem in the least bit concerned by this, claiming that Joni “always passed out before she got sick.” Their concern grew when the school nurse visited the apartment on Lincoln Street and was overcome by the living conditions.

  At the school’s request, the caseworker went to visit that same day. Though he didn’t think it possible, he found the living conditions even more deplorable than on his visit a month before. Though summer was a distant echo, an army of flies swarmed over everything, including my brother Steven and me. Both of us were barefoot and covered in dirt and old food. Dirty clothes, old cans, and used disposable diapers were strewn about the floor. A garbage stench permeated the small apartment. Several times the caseworker was overcome by the terrible smell and had to step outside to get air.

  Equally concerning was my mother’s attitude. Defensive and belligerent, she had an excuse for everything. Whatever was wrong with Joni had nothing to do with her but with the foster family she had lived with before. The terrible condition of the apartment? It didn’t matter since she was getting evicted anyway. The policewoman who had stopped by a few days before, expressing concern? She was harassing her.

  For years the agency had failed to take decisive action, largely because the prevailing wisdom of the time was that children were best served by staying with their biological mothers. But now teachers, nurses, school officials, neighbors, other tenants, and the police had all weighed in with their concerns. Anyone who came in contact with Marian and her children could see how this was going to end. A phone call from the owner of the house on Lincoln Street to the agency encapsulated what everyone else seemed unwilling to say: if these children stay with their mother much longer, they are going to die.

  The agency had a very clear plan when they came to our apartment that cold December afternoon in 1970. Joni and I were to be signed into foster care, and Marc was to go to New Jersey to live with our grandparents. The department seemed to grasp the traumatic effect such a move would have on our mother and decided to let Steven stay with her for the time being. The movers struggled to remove items from the apartment, hampered by the trash and debris that cluttered the floor. My mother was not prepared for our departure. She scurried around looking for clothing for me but could find nothing. Finally, the caseworker took me out to the car in what I had on: shoes and a sweater. I had no socks, no jacket, no pants. The temperature was in the thirties.

  I was wrapped in a blanket, and the caseworker gave me a jar of candy. I proceeded to eat the entire contents, stuffing three and four candies into my mouth at one time. It was the first time I had eaten that day. I asked a lot of questions about where I was going, but my backseat companion never said a word.

  As I read further in the report, I suddenly bolted from my seat. My first memory, the one I had retained all those years, the one that seemed so disconnected from everything else in my life, was of my final day with my mother. And the identity of the child in the backseat, the one I did not want them to take away? That was my sister, Joni.

  Today I have no recollection of the moments before I got into the car. I would like to remember because it would give me something I long for and that no one else can give me—a memory of my mother. Right before I climbed into the car, I was with her, near her, close to her. Though I close my eyes and scour my memory, impose my will on it, desperately try to recall something of her—her voice, her smile, the color of her hair—I cannot. Though others describe these things to me, those are their memories, and I cannot make them mine, try as I might.

  We left Joni that day at an orphanage, St. Mary’s Home. A wonderful family from Taunton, Massachusetts, eventually adopted her, but she would be haunted by the memories of those early years with our mother. My grandfather, Joseph Murphy, picked up Marc the following day
. Within a year, largely driven by finances, he made the gut-wrenching decision to return his grandson to foster care. But unbeknown to Joe, Marc would be taken in by New Jersey foster families who treated him terribly. Like Marc, I would fall into the clutches of cruel foster families: first the abandoning Andrades and later the ruthless Robinsons, arriving at their home shortly after my father’s murder in August 1972. Though Betty Robinson knew who my father was and could have brought me to the Pemberton family, she never did. The case file told me that Betty and Willie Robinson were fully aware of the horrors of my initial years with my mother. Yet this would not stop them from unleashing more devastation. My brother Steven stayed with our mother for another three years and lived the life of a transient before he, too, was placed in foster care. Twenty years would pass before we would see one another. At no point in our lives have the five of us been together at one time.

  I have no idea how my mother reacted the day the agency came to take her children. I do know that Marian Klakowicz fought on, battling the courts and the agency to have her children returned. The agency pleaded with her to release custody of us but she refused, driven by her belief that “all children belong with their mother.” At one point, she told the caseworker that she would consider adoption, but only for me—because of my mixed race, she believed I would be better off in a different family setting. As I read this, I couldn’t help but think back to the letter I’d read at my grandmother’s and my mother’s stinging failure to mention my name. For years that letter had been her final legacy to me, but now the case file had painted a different picture: a mother who wrestled with the idea that she could best love her son by letting him go.

  But no matter what her hopes were or how desperate her pleas, the agency refused her requests. In fact, the agency implored her to sign the necessary papers to release us for adoption. Each time she angrily rebuffed them, exercising the last remaining legal right she had. It was a stalemate between a recalcitrant mother who desperately wanted her children and an intractable agency that had seen firsthand the torment her children had suffered in her care. Ultimately the agency would win. My mother, I suspect, would have found some victory in knowing that she had never willingly signed us away.