A Chance in the World

by Steve Pemberton

  A fifth grader from Massachusetts read A Chance in the World and wrote me a wonderful, heartfelt letter. I was so moved by it, I decided to surprise him by showing up at his school. When I called his teacher to tell her of my plan, she was elated. Later that afternoon, she called back to inquire if I would speak to the entire school; I quickly agreed.

  “Great,” she exclaimed. “Now, I just need to get approval from the principal.”

  The principal, however, was hesitant—until she saw my photo and realized that she had been my second grade teacher forty years ago.

  The passage of time has taken many of the book’s characters from us. John Sykes’s parents Theresa and John Sr., Aunt Geraldine and Uncle Warren, Herbert Palmer, Charlie Carmo, and Willie Robinson have all passed on. I still have not heard from my sister Joni.

  John Sykes, or Grandpa John as the kids call him, retired from teaching several years ago. He spends his days riding to New Hampshire on his Harley Davidson, or relaxing on Martha’s Vineyard and making sure that the kids’ birthday cards and Christmas gifts arrive on time. Grandma Murphy remains as strong as ever, even though Hurricane Sandy destroyed her home in 2012.

  “God is not done with me either,” she says.

  Nor is He done with Ruby Dottin, whose portrait now hangs right alongside other historic city figures in the New Bedford Public library that I frequented as a young boy. Ben, Marc, and Steven continue to live their lives in relative peace. Aunt Josie remains the doting matriarch of the Murphy brood, which has grown to include several grandchildren. Uncle Greg and Aunt Sonie came to Illinois last year to share Thanksgiving with us, the first time we’d enjoyed a holiday meal with a Pemberton.

  We no longer live in the Boston area. Several years ago, we relocated to Illinois, although I continue to root for my beloved Red Sox. I work in corporate America now, having taken on senior management roles at Walgreens and now Globoforce, an online platform that brings positivity to the world through social recognition. In 2015, I had an opportunity to graduate from college again when Boston College bestowed an honorary doctorate on me. This time my family was there and the correct name appeared on my diploma. Continually inspired by the Jesuit message of service to others, Tonya and I created the A Chance in the World Foundation to provide others with the kinds of opportunities that made such a difference to me. In recent years, the foundation has provided internships for young adults aging out of the foster care system, as well as scholarships for middle schoolers in New Bedford. In these and other ways, I hope to continue to touch lives and to remind others that all is not lost.

  When I wasn’t working or spending time with my family, I traveled to communities all across America, from book clubs and churches to town halls and universities, to speak about A Chance in the World. During the question and answer sessions that are my favorite part of these events, one question pops up more than any other: What happened to Mrs. Levin? For many years, I’d wondered this myself. I had gone to the home I knew to be hers, only to find that she had moved. Her home’s new occupants had known nothing of her whereabouts. As the years passed, I gave up any thought of ever seeing her again. Given her age, it was likely she had passed on.

  Then, as has so often been the case in my life, a miracle happened. In January 2012, a few weeks after the book was published, I returned from a long day of meetings at Walgreens to find several messages waiting for me at my office, including one from a Scott Lima. I recognized the name immediately. Scott was a few years older than me and had lived one block over from the house on Arnold Street. I had not seen or spoken to him since I left the neighborhood.

  I knew he wanted to talk about A Chance in the World. Upon its release, the book had been widely read in New Bedford. Rarely did a day pass when I didn’t hear from someone in the community, including elementary school classmates of mine, teachers, neighbors, and others. It was hard to return all these messages as quickly as I wanted to. But the last of Scott’s messages that day got my attention: “I need to talk to you about page thirty-three of the book.”

  Later that evening, I had a chance to sit down with the book and remind myself what was on page thirty-three. I called him immediately. We exchanged a few pleasantries, but I could tell he wanted to get to the point.

  “So, do you know what I wanted to talk to you about or better yet, who I wanted to talk to you about?”

  “Mrs. Levin,” I offered.

  “You got it!” he replied.

  He told me that as soon as he read the chapter about the kind neighbor who brought me books, he knew exactly who she was.

  “Did I get her name right?” I asked.

  “You sure did.”

  I smiled. My memory had not failed me. “She doesn’t live in that neighborhood anymore, though.”

  “I know,” Scott responded. “And that’s why I tracked you down in Illinois . . . to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  There was a pause on the other end.

  “We found her.”

  I was not the only child who remembered Mrs. Levin. Scott distinctly remembered watching Mrs. Levin walk to Sunnybrook Farms, often in the company of her husband. Scott had a paper route at the time, and he recalled that the Levin’s home was not on his neighborhood route, precisely because they enjoyed walking to the store together, passing the house on Arnold Street to do so. Scott called the local synagogue trying to locate the Levins. When that didn’t work, he remembered a friend, Arthur Glassman, who often visited the Levins in the company of his father, who was a rabbi.

  Scott called Arthur to see if he might help him. He didn’t get too far into his description of Mrs. Levin before Arthur interrupted him.

  “You’re talking about Claire Levin and her husband,” he said. “They are alive and well and live in Dartmouth, Massachusetts.”

  The following month, Tonya and I flew to Massachusetts to meet Mrs. Levin. As we drove down Route 24 toward New Bedford and Dartmouth, a light snow fell, and the Town Car’s cabin echoed with the steady whump-whump of the windshield wipers. Tonya asked me about Mrs. Levin, so I recalled for her everything I could, from the clothes Mrs. Levin wore to the unique way her mouth formed when she smiled.

  “Wow,” Tonya said, “your memories are so detailed. Why is that?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve asked myself the same thing over the years. I think that when you’re in the middle of a situation that is so desperate, you remember every kindness because you never know if you’ll see it again. As I’ve gotten older, I realized that she saw me—not what I was, but what I could be.”

  We got off Route 24 and headed south on Route 140. As we entered New Bedford, I noticed that the old Rezendes Furniture store, where I used to catch the bus back to Boston College, had given way to a CVS Pharmacy. The small neighborhood gas station was still on the opposite corner, though.

  We turned right onto State Road and headed toward the town of Dartmouth. I realized we hadn’t brought anything for Mrs. Levin, so we stopped at a local florist. Tonya picked out a wonderful bouquet of yellow roses, and we continued on our way. I pointed out several landmarks: the place I bought my first car, an iconic bookstore, a rival high school. When we encountered a big green sign that read “Slocum Road, S. Dartmouth,” Tonya patted me on the knee.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  We turned onto Mrs. Levin’s street. “Oh, you’re not going to believe this.” I pointed toward the west.

  “John’s parents lived the next block over,” I said, recalling the warmth and love of Theresa and John Sykes Sr.

  She shook her head in amazement. “All those years you spent looking for her and she was right here all along.”

  We pulled up at the Levin home, a modest but quaint ranch-style house with an adjacent carport. Tonya and I smiled at each other.

  “Okay, here goes,” I said.

  We got out of the car, and walked toward the carport. I glimpsed a smallish figure in the doorway. A
layer of frost on the storm door obscured most of the person’s face, but the person was smiling. I turned to Tonya. “She smiles exactly the way I remember.”

  Her wonderful smile and twinkling eyes told me that she recognized me too. She opened her arms to me and then greeted me with a grandmotherly peck on the cheek and introduced me to her husband, Fred. I handed her the roses.

  “Thank you,” she said, accepting them. With a sly, mischievous wink, she added, “Can we have this happen every day?”

  We went to her living room, where the Levins had gathered their extended family to greet Tonya and me. We met her three sons, their wives, and their children. The Levins sat down side by side on the couch, with Tonya to their right. I pulled up a chair directly across from the three of them. Claire wore a white sweater and black skirt, Fred a blue plaid shirt and black suspenders. On the small table next to Claire stood a framed photo of the Levins inscribed with the word family as well as a small statue of a woman bowed in prayer.

  Thirty years is a lot of time to recapture in a single visit, but during the next few hours, we tried. Claire and Fred told me of their present-day life after nearly sixty years of marriage.

  “We spend all day together,” she said, glancing over at her beaming husband. “He is my best friend.”

  As she related, they were first generation Americans of Turkish descent and had come to New Bedford by way of New York. For decades they had run a fishing net company out of nearby Fairhaven and had passed along the family business to their sons. Their retirement years had been quite enjoyable, their chief pleasure was watching their family grow and thrive.

  Mrs. Levin recounted that the books she brought me over the years had previously been her sons’. She had bought them mysteries, perceiving that genre as especially good at developing curiosity in young minds. She recalled seeing me reading frequently as a young boy, and knew that I would enjoy the books as much as her sons had. She had instructed her boys to take good care of the books, because the “cute boy down the street is going to get them next.” All along, she had known nothing about what was happening at the home on Arnold Street. Neither had Fred, but he did note that he had had a strange feeling about the Robinsons.

  “They were odd, to be honest with you,” he said. “Something wasn’t right, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.” His voice caught slightly. “Had we known what was going on there, we would have taken you and had you come live with us.”

  Claire reached out and held his hand.

  She had not read the book until Scott and Arthur brought it to her. I took great delight in telling her that many people ask about her and often come away inspired to help other people in turn. I wondered aloud where that spirit of giving came from—it was something I had always wanted to ask her.

  “Well,” she said, “it came from my parents. They told me that we had a responsibility to help others. They said if you paid close attention to the world around you, you would always find an opportunity to contribute. In the Jewish faith, that is called tzedakah. Helping others is not simply a voluntary act. It is your religious obligation. It doesn’t matter your means either. Give from where you are, with whatever you have.”

  Give from where you are, with whatever you have. That’s exactly right.

  Winter shadows began to appear outside the window. It was time for us to head back to the airport. We exchanged hugs, Tonya and I promising we would return that summer with our children (a promise we would fulfill). Fred gave me a strong handshake, his red-rimmed eyes conveying his appreciation and gratitude more than any words could. Claire reached up to give me a big hug. As she pulled away, she whispered, “This is one of the best days of my life. You are one of mine now.”

  Rather than making straight for the highway, we took a meandering route so that I could show Tonya historic downtown New Bedford. As we drove, I found myself reflecting on all the questions I had received about Mrs. Levin. The strength and character of this blue-collar city, hard beside the ocean, has always come from the sea. That integrity is reflected best in its citizens, honorable people like Ruby Dottin, John Sykes, and Claire Levin. And I have found many selfless figures like them in towns and cities across America, committed and passionate individuals who dedicate themselves to providing chances for others, confident they can bend the arc of that life. In their compassion, they represent the best of what we aspire to be as citizens, as communities, and as a country.

  An anonymous Greek proverb says that a society grows great when we plant trees in whose shade we know we shall never sit. I will be forever grateful to those who planted a seed with me and who saw not the circumstances of my life but its possibilities.

  Now it’s my turn to do the same.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The living and telling of this story is not possible without the intervening of a thousand angels. I am indebted to my dear friends Doug Hardy, who would not let this story fade, and Ron Sullivan, who set about the task of helping bring it to fruition; my phenomenal agent, Helen Rees, who stood beside me through all the perils and possibilities of a first-time author and in the process became my dear friend; my early collaborator Glenn Rifkin; my personal editor Seth Schulman, whose guidance and steady hand was always present; the good people of Thomas Nelson—Kristie Henson, Janene MacIvor, Jason Jones, and lastly Joel Miller, who saw the promise of this story at the outset.

  That I am here to tell this at all is the reflection of so many whose kindnesses, big and small, propelled me forward in the most difficult of times. Their importance to me is reflected in these pages. I have also been blessed with an extraordinary group of friends who awed me with their support. There are far too many of them to list here but they know who they are. And so do I. To Jim Kirsch, Stephanie Robinson, Joan Wallace-Benjamin: there is no word available to me to describe your giving hearts and spirits. And I also want to thank my Fellow Travelers, those truly wonderful people I encounter in my professional life who continually inspire me.

  I am eternally grateful to the Murphy and Pemberton families who took me down the often difficult path of their family’s past and were brave enough to face it with me. My heroes and heroines will always be my brothers and sisters whose stories of courage also unfold in these pages.

  My wife Tonya always understood this was a story about home and family and of reconciliation and redemption. Her support and spirit never wavered and I will forever remember the way I saw her on so many nights—feet curled under legs, cup of tea in hand, listening intently as this story poured forth from me. T, your spirit has always been my safe harbor. To walk alongside you and share this life with you has been another of God’s gifts to me.

  To my darling children Quinn, Vaughn, and Kennedy: you have given me the gift of fatherhood and in the process also gave me a childhood. Someday, in the not-so-distant future, the beautiful sound of your own children’s laughter will enter your universe. And when it does, you will finally understand why my first waking thought of each morning is you. But until that blessed day, may this story give you some hint of the depth of my love for you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STEVE PEMBERTON was born and raised in New Bedford, Massachusetts. After graduating from Boston College with a degree in political science, Steve worked in higher education for several years before moving to the private sector taking on senior management roles at Monster.com and Walgreen's. Today he is Chief People Officer for Globoforce. He currently resides in Chicago with his wife and three children. This is his first book.

  www.achanceintheworld.com

 

 

 
0%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share