The Lost Boy

by Dave Pelzer

  My chest was beating like a drum. Now the hard part. Just in front of me was the door to victory. Ever so slightly, I dipped my head and listened for anyone behind me or someone shouting for me to stop. The delicate moment had arrived. My face became tight as I reached out to push the door open, just enough to allow me to slide out so in case someone had followed me, that person would have to spend the extra time and effort of pushing the door open—providing me an additional chance of sprinting away. I smiled to myself, knowing that I had thought of everything.

  Behind the glass door, I could hear the group of boys clapping and shouting for me. Johnny was already outside, his eyes as big as pancakes. I broke my concentration for a moment—but only for a moment—thinking what my latest risk would do for my acceptance among the group. At times in the past, the boys had teased me and played tricks on me in the park. I knew all along that they were taunting me, but I went along with the gags anyway. Any attention was better than none.

  I held my head high, smiling as I slid out the door. By then the boys were laughing, and they began to attract attention. I thought I heard the sound of the door swish open from behind me. I started to reach over with my right hand and toss my prize to Johnny, when screams of laughter erupted. Johnny laughed so hard that he had tears in his eyes. I snapped out of my concentration and laughed, too. “David,” Johnny howled, “I’d like you . . . oh man, this is just too much!” he giggled. “I’d like you to meet my dad.” In an instant my feet transformed into solid blocks of ice. I turned to see a man in a red Walgreens vest with a name tag that read “Mr. Jones—Store Manager.”

  Mr. Jones snatched the model, then grabbed my shirt. I walked in front of him as he opened the door to the store. As the glass door closed behind me, I turned my head. The group of boys leaned on their bikes and yelled, “Busted!” at the top of their lungs.

  “We’ve had our eye on you for quite a while. My son told me all about you . . . David.”

  I closed my eyes, thinking what a complete fool I was. I wasn’t sorry for stealing. I knew that what I was doing was wrong and I had accepted that fact. I even knew that my luck would eventually run out. But to be set up by the kid’s father! I knew that Johnny himself was swiping candy at the store next to Walgreens. I should have known better, I told myself. I knew they couldn’t have liked me for just being another kid.

  About an hour later I returned to Lilian’s home. I opened the door and could hear her run from the couch. As I dragged myself up the stairs, she stood with her hands glued to her hips. Her face was cherry red.

  I slid into the kitchen chair before Lilian began her fury of questions, statements and past observations on my past behavior. I simply stared through her, nodding when I felt a response was necessary. I tried to convince her that I was indeed sorry. As the words spilled out, they seemed too easy. I knew my heart wasn’t in it. Afterward, I plodded off to my room where I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I was grounded for a week. Big deal, I told myself.

  A few moments after Rudy came home, I stood in front of him. I silently let out a sigh. Round 2, I told myself.

  “I don’t know what it is with you,” Rudy began to rave, “but I’ll tell you this. I’m not putting up with a thief! I know I’ve let some things slide by, and I know that Lil’s a bit easy on you. I can accept that. I also know you’ve had some hard times . . . but I’m not going to stand for this anymore— that potty mouth of yours, the fighting, the hitting, the yelling, calls from your mother, slamming my doors around this home. Do you know how much doors cost? Well, do you?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Well, it’s more than you’ll ever make. I work hard, and I love you kids. But I don’t need your crap. You hear me?” Rudy yelled.

  I nodded again, knowing that Rudy knew I didn’t care.

  “Are you the one who’s been stealing my cigarettes?”

  My head swung upward. “No, sir!”

  “And you expect me to believe you!” Rudy shot back. “If I hear you’ve caused any more problems . . . I’ll send your little butt to The Hill.”

  My face lit up. “The Hill? ”

  “Oh! Now I have your attention. Ask around.” Rudy twirled around. “Ask Larry Junior here. I’ve driven him to The Hill a time or two, haven’t I, Larry?”

  Larry Jr., who had been chuckling behind Rudy’s back, now put on a serious, frightened face. “Right, Dad,” he said in a fearful tone, as he bowed his head.

  “I don’t want to—you’re a bit young—but I’ll load that butt of yours in the car and haul you myself. If there’s one thing I will not tolerate, it’s a liar and a thief!” Rudy huffed, as Lilian approached his side. “And Lil can cry her eyes out, but that’s the way it’s going to be in this house. Am I clear, young man?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you too big in the britches that you can’t say yes or no?” Rudy barked.

  “Yes, sir,” I said in a defiant tone. “I understand.”

  “Then go to your room. You’re grounded.”

  I sat in my room and stewed. Yeah, I said to myself, grounded. Big deal. I wasn’t mad at Rudy or Lilian for yelling at me, or even for being set up by Johnny and the other kids. I was furious for allowing myself to let down my guard. David! I yelled at myself. How could you have been so stupid? I then jumped off the bed and began pacing the floor, becoming more upset at everything in my life.

  That Saturday I put little effort into my chores. I carelessly vacuumed the home and barely removed the dust from the furniture. When the chores were completed, Rudy took Lilian shopping for groceries. All alone, I rocked on Rudy’s recliner chair and flipped through the TV channels. I soon lost interest when I realized that the morning cartoons had already been on.

  I rolled out of the chair and strolled over to the living room window, staring outside. I thought that maybe Dad would visit me tomorrow. After a few seconds I chuckled to myself, knowing how foolish I was being. Suddenly the blur of a kid whizzing down the street on his bike caught my eye.

  Without thinking I ran into my bedroom, emptied my money jar into my hand and grabbed my jacket before trotting down the stairs. I proudly wheeled out my bike and made it a point to slam the door extra hard. I had decided that I was going to run away.

  I felt a rush of excitement as the howling wind struck my face, and I pedaled up and down the slopes leading into Daly City and the Serramonte-6 movie theater. Once there I parked my bike and watched James Bond three times in a row before sneaking into the other shows. Later that evening the theater attendant kicked me out so he could close for the day. The reality of my decision began to sink in. As I unlocked my bike, I shivered from the chilling fog that seeped through my clothes. After my stomach growled, I dug into my pocket to count my savings—$2.30. I pocketed the change and turned my hunger off, focusing on shelter instead. To help stay warm I pedaled my bike. Only after I rode past the darkened homes in the neighborhoods did I realize that it was after 11:30 P.M.

  Sometime later I rode down the street leading to my old elementary school. I coasted past the play yard, listening to the sounds of the swings sway from the breeze. Afterward, I walked my bike up the seemingly endless hill of Eastgate Avenue. When I reached the top of Crestline Avenue, just as I had a few weeks before, I hid beside a clump of bushes as I peered down the foggy street.

  I couldn’t resist riding down the street. I stopped a few houses above Mother’s house. A soft yellow light shone through her draped bedroom windows. I wondered whether Mother ever thought about me as I did her. I began to think of how my brothers spent their time at Mother’s house. A howling wind blew through my hair. I rolled up the collar of my shirt. I realized that the house I was spying on was not the same home that had entertained an army of children when Mother was a Cub Scout leader, or the same home that had been the most popular home on the block during Christmas season, so many years ago. After Mother turned off her bedroom light, I said a prayer before I coasted down the street to return to the area
by the movie theater. That night I fell asleep curled up, shivering underneath an air-conditioning unit.

  The next day I spent the entire day in the movie theater and fell asleep to Bruce Lee’s Enter the Dragon. That evening after the theater closed, I rode up to the local Denny’s restaurant, where I salivated as plates of food whizzed by the counter. The manager, who had eyed me for two days now, sat down and talked to me. After a few minutes of prodding, I gave him the Catanzes’ phone number. I gulped down a burger before Rudy picked me up in his blue Chrysler.

  “David,” Rudy began, “I’m not going to badger you. All I can say is, you can’t keep acting like this. This is no way to live—for you or for us. You’ve got to shape up.”

  Once we arrived at their home, I took a quick bath, then drifted off to sleep as Rudy and Lilian discussed how to handle me.

  The next day Ms. Gold made a rare appearance. She didn’t seem to be her bouncy self, and I noticed she forgot to give me a hug. “David, what seems to be the problem here?” she asked in a firm voice.

  I played with my hands as I tried to avoid looking at Ms. Gold. “How come you never come to visit?”

  “David? Now, you know there are lots of other children who, like you, need my help. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said in agreement. I felt guilty taking Ms. Gold’s time away from the other children, but I missed seeing her as much as I had before the trial.

  “David, Mrs. Catanze tells me that you’re having a very hard time adjusting here. Is it that you don’t like the home? What’s going on inside of you? Where’s that cute little boy I knew a few weeks ago, huh?”

  I stared at my hands. I was too embarrassed to answer.

  After a minute of silence she said, “Don’t worry, I know all about the psychiatrist. It’s not your fault. We’ll find you one who’s used to relating with kids. . . .”

  “I’m not a kid. I’m 12 years old, and I’m tired of being picked on!” I stated in a cold tone. I had to catch myself before I revealed another side of my personality that, until recently, had never existed.

  “David, why are you so upset?”

  “I dunno, Ms. G. Sometimes I just . . .”

  Ms. Gold scooted closer to me from the other side of the couch. She lifted my chin with her fingers as I sniffled and wiped my nose. “Are you getting enough sleep? You don’t look so good. Do you not like it here?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I nodded. “I like it here a lot. Mrs. Catanze is real nice. It’s just that sometimes . . . I get scared. I try to tell her, but I can’t. There’s just so much I don’t understand, and I wanna know why.”

  “David, I know this may be hard for you to swallow, but what you’re feeling right now, right this moment, is perfectly normal. If you weren’t a little confused or worried, then I’d be concerned.

  You’re perfectly fine.

  “But what I am concerned about right now is your behavior. I know you’re a better boy than you’ve been acting here recently. Am I right? And Mr. Catanze is not very happy with you right at this moment, is he?”

  “So I’m okay?”

  Ms. Gold smiled. “Yeah, for the most part, I’d say so. We’ve still got to iron out a few wrinkles, but if I could only get you to modify your behavior, you’d be fine. Now, do you have any questions for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. . . . Have you heard anything from my dad?”

  Ms. Gold raised her eyebrows. “Hasn’t he been by to visit? He was supposed to have seen you weeks ago,” she said, as she flipped through her notebook.

  I shook my head no. “I’ve wrote him some letters, but I don’t think I have the right address. I don’t get any letters back . . . and I don’t have his phone number. Do you know if my dad’s okay?”

  She swallowed hard. “Well . . . I . . . do know your father’s moved into another apartment . . . and he’s been transferred to a different fire station.”

  Tears dribbled down my face. “Can I call him? I just want to hear his voice.”

  “Honey, I don’t have his number. But I promise I’ll try to call your father as soon as I can. I’ll try to call him today. Is that why you drove by your mother’s house and tried to call her a few weeks ago?”

  “I dunno,” I answered. I didn’t dare tell Ms. Gold about cruising by Mother’s house the other Saturday night. “How come I’m not allowed to call her?”

  “David, what is it you’re expecting? What are you looking for?” she asked in a soft tone, as she, too, seemed to search for answers.

  “I don’t understand why I’m not allowed to see or talk to her or the boys. What did I do? I just want to know . . . why things happened like they did. I don’t want to turn into the kind of person she is now. The psychiatrist says I should hate my mom. You tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

  “Well, I don’t believe you should hate your mother, or anyone else for that matter. How could I put this . . . ?” Ms. Gold put a finger to her mouth and gazed at the ceiling. “David, your mother’s a wounded animal. I have no logical answer why she changed her telephone number or why she acts the way she does.” She drew me to her side. “David, you’re a little boy—excuse me, a 12-year-young man—who’s a little confused, thinks too much about some things and not enough about other things. I know you must have had to think ahead a great deal in order to survive, but you need to turn that off. You may never find your answers, and I don’t want your past to tear you up. I don’t even know why these things happen to children, and I may never know. But I do know that you need to be very careful of what you’re doing right now, today, rather than trying to find the answers to your past. I’ll help you as much as I can, but you have to really make a better effort to maintain yourself.”

  Ms. Gold held me for a long time. I heard her sniffle and felt her body shudder. I turned to look up at her—my loving social worker. “Why are you crying?” I asked.

  “Honey, I just don’t want to lose you,” she said, smiling.

  I smiled back. “I won’t run away again.”

  “Honey, I can only tell you one more time. You need to be very, very good. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “I’ll be good, I promise,” I said, trying to reassure my angel.

  After Ms. Gold’s visit, I returned to my usual joyful self. I felt good inside again. I didn’t think about the nutty psychiatrist, I made an extra effort to get along with Larry Jr. and I performed my chores with pride. I did not even mind being grounded. I simply snuck downstairs, borrowed some old car wax and polished my bike from end to end. I kept my room spotless, and waited impatiently for a change of pace and for the start of the school year.

  Once school started I kept to myself, as I watched other kids from my class show off their fancy clothes and their colored markers. During recess I strolled out to the grass and watched some of the boys play football. I turned my head for a moment and a second later a football struck the side of my face. As I rubbed the sting on my right cheek, I could hear laughter. “Hey, man,” the biggest kid shouted, “throw us the ball.” I became nervous as I bent down to pick up the ball. I had never thrown a football before. I knew I couldn’t throw a smooth spiral. I tried to imitate the other boys as I sucked in my breath, then flung the ball. The football wobbled end over end before it dived a few feet in front of me.

  “What’s the matter, man?” a kid said as he picked up the ball. “Haven’t you ever thrown a football before?”

  Before I could reply, a boy from my class strolled over. “Yeah . . . he’s the one I was telling you guys about. Check out the clothes and the shoes, too. He looks like his mother dresses him or something. The kid’s a walking dork!”

  Without thinking, I spread my arms and examined my outfit. I felt proud of my blue shirt. My pants had a patch on each knee and my Keds sneakers were a little scuffed, but they were still new as far as I was concerned. After inspecting myself I studied the other boys, who all seemed to have better clothes and fancier shoes. Some of them were wear
ing thick, black turtleneck sweaters. I stared at myself again, feeling ashamed. But I wasn’t sure why.

  In class I became a nervous wreck whenever I was called on by the teacher. Sometimes I’d stutter in front of everyone. Afterward, the football boys would imitate me as I slid down into my seat, trying to hide from their remarks. During English I’d always write a story about how my brothers and I had become separated and struggled to find each other. I always drew pictures of my brothers and me being separated by either a body of dark water or black jagged cliffs. In every drawing I’d borrow my teacher’s crayons and draw big smiles on every face, and a giant happy-face sun that shone above my four brothers and me.

  Once while walking home from school, a couple of the football boys teased me about using crayons. I wanted so badly to tell them off, but I knew I’d probably screw that up, too. I ran off, my feelings hurt. Soon I met up with another kid from my class named John. Like me, John stuck out. He had scraggly, long black hair and thin, worn-out clothes. John had a very distinctive walk, and I suddenly realized that no one seemed to pick on him. As I ran up to John, I noticed a cigarette in his hand.

  “Hey,” John said, “you that new kid in school?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, feeling proud as we began to stroll along.

  “Don’t worry about those guys,” John said, pointing behind him. “I know what it’s like to be picked on. My dad used to beat up on my mother and me. He don’t live with us anymore.” I quickly zeroed in on his rough attitude. John went on to explain that his parents had just divorced and his mother had to work full-time in order to feed his other brothers and him. I felt bad. At the end of the corner we said good-bye. As I made my way up to Lilian’s home, a cold feeling reminded me of how much I had dreaded returning home from school.