by Henry Hack
“I just spoke to the headmaster, Mr. Eglund, and he is going to try very hard to get you into foster care as soon as he can.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s where you live with a real family in a real home. They treat you like one of their own children. Would you like that?”
“Sure. It sounds a lot better than here,” I said.
After Miss Saunders left I felt better and began thinking about leaving this place for a real home and maybe a bedroom of my own. I had been getting nervous and afraid because I had been hearing stories of how the older boys would force us younger boys to do bad things – dirty things. I hoped I would get out of here before something like that happened to me. Then I hoped they would find Mommy and she would come and take me back to our home in Levittown.
Three weeks later I was called into the headmaster’s office and was introduced to a Mr. and Mrs. Hammond. After we talked awhile and I answered their questions, I was told to wait outside. I sat on a bench with three other boys about my age and one by one they were called in to the office to speak with the Hammonds. Five minutes after we all had been spoken to, Mr. Eglund called me back into the office and told the other boys to return to the dormitory. He said with a big smile, “Mr. and Mrs. Hammond have chosen you to come live with them and their family. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Yes, sir,” I said also smiling. Although it was great to be getting out of here, I couldn’t help remembering the dejected faces on the other boys when they were told they would not be leaving.
“I’m Jethro Hammond,” the man said standing up and reaching out to shake my hand. “And this is my wife, Pauline Hammond. Of course, you will call us Mister and Misses, but as time goes by you may want to call us Mom and Dad.”
“Yes, sir,” I said thinking no way would I ever call anyone else Mom and Dad. I had my own Mom and Dad, but then the reality of my situation hit me like a sneak punch to my stomach – Dad was dead. Mom had killed him and it looked like she wasn’t ever coming back to get me.
“Go get your things, Frankie,” Mr. Eglund said.
“Can I bring my bike?” I asked. “Officer Boyland has it at his home in Long Island.”
“That wouldn’t be possible,” Mr. Hammond said. “We run a working farm way upstate. Between school and your chores there’ll be no time for bike riding.”
He was not smiling and Mrs. Hammond looked down and said nothing.
So the next day I began a life of hard physical work even on school days – before I left and after I came home. The Hammonds had four other foster children, two girls ages eleven and fourteen and two other boys, ages twelve and fifteen. The Hammonds had no children of their own. The girls mostly did housework – cooking, cleaning and tending to the vegetable garden. We boys did the farm work – hauling, plowing, reaping, planting, weeding, shucking, bailing and loading.
Anthony, the twelve year old, and I hit it off right away. He took me under his wing and gave me advice on how to get along with the Hammonds. “We work hard,” he said, “but we have good food, a nice bed to sleep in and they rarely hit us.”
“How long can we live here?” I asked.
“Until you turn eighteen,” he said. “Then the foster care money from the State stops and you are on your own. That’s why you’re here. John turned eighteen two weeks ago and joined the Army.”
What Anthony didn’t tell me then, but did later on, was that the Hammonds turned John out without a thank you, good wishes, some new clothes, or even a few dollars, and immediately turned their attention to finding his replacement. I was beginning to feel unhappy with my situation, but it wasn’t until a couple weeks later, when Anthony told me something else, that I knew this was a bad place.
We were bussed to school every day with the other kids from the surrounding farms. There were three grades in each classroom and I spent a lot of time daydreaming about Mommy and my former home. Gone were my friends, the neighbors, the ice cream trucks and the movie theaters of the suburbs, replaced by the wide-open boring farmlands of upstate New York. On the bus ride home I said to Anthony, “You said this was a pretty good place, but the way you said it was kind of creepy. Did you tell me everything?”
“You mean you haven’t had a night visit yet?”
“A night visit? What do you mean?”
“So, you haven’t,” Anthony said. “You’re overdue for one. It could be tonight.”
“What…”?
“Look, this place is the best one I’ve been in and I’ve been in four others, so my advice is to just put up with the old man. If you fight him and don’t go along, he’ll send you right back to the Home.”
Despite my repeated questions, Anthony refused to tell me exactly what the night visit was, finally breaking away from me as we got off the school bus. I had a tough time falling asleep that night, but nothing ever happened. But two nights later…
I half awoke to someone fondling my private parts and I sensed a presence - another body – in my bed. Startled, and now fully awake, I tried to get up but the firm hand of Jethro Hammond held me down. “Now, now, Frankie,” he said in a whisper, “just be quiet. I’m just going to teach you a few things, okay? And it wouldn’t be wise to make any noise or resist me or tomorrow you’ll go straight back to the Home. Do you understand?”
Terrified, I nodded my head.
“That’s good Frankie. We’ll start slow. Now give me your hand…”
“Yeah,” Anthony said, when I told him the next morning of my first night visit. “That’s the way he started with me – with all of us.”
“The girls, too?”
“Yeah, and it gets worse.”
“What do you mean?”
“He makes you put his thing in your mouth and then he sticks it in your behind.”
I trembled and had trouble imagining such things. I said, “Does he visit every night?”
“Nah,” Anthony said. “There are five of us, so your turn comes up maybe once a week or so.”
“I won’t let him do that to me,” I said.
“And what are you going to do about it?”
“Run away. We could all run away.”
“Yeah? To where? You got any money? You got people somewhere who’ll take you in? We all don’t.”
I wondered what to do dreading the next night visit which happened eight days later. Hammond did not make me put his thing in my mouth, but he did use a lot of Vaseline to shove his thing in my behind. I started to scream because of the pain, but he clamped his hand over my mouth and said, “S-s-s-h, quiet boy. This will be over quick and next time it won’t hurt as much.”
Next time? I shut my eyes attempting to stop the flow of my tears as he pumped away. Finally, it was over. He was panting like an old dog as he got up and pulled up his pants. “Not a word boy, understand? Now go clean yourself up.”
A few minutes after he left the room, still sobbing and in great pain, I crawled to the bathroom. I was horrified to see the blood – lots of it – on the toilet paper as I wiped myself, trying to wipe away the filth of Jethro Hammond. What would I do now? I vowed that I would not let him touch me ever again, but how could I prevent it? Mommy, where are you? Help me! Mommy what should I do?
I took a drink of water and then Mommy was speaking in my mind, “Frankie,” she whispered. “You know what to do, you know what I would do, what I had to do, right?”
“Yes, Mommy,” I whispered. “I know.”
I knew exactly what to do now. I would kill Mr. Hammond just like Mommy killed Daddy. I will smash his head with a brick and throw him down the stairs.
The harsh brightness of the morning sun melted my resolve to kill Jethro Hammond like it would have melted an early spring snow – quickly and completely. Not that I still didn’t want to do it, but that I was not capable of doing it. I was not yet ten years old, thin and small in stature, and no match for the rugged forty-year old farmer with the lined face and cold blue eyes who stood a solid, muscular six feet t
all . But I had to do something to get away from him before his next dreaded night visit.
After five days and nights the idea hit me. Anthony was right – I couldn’t run away for all the obvious reasons, but I could report him to the police. I could call Officer Boyland. Surely, he would help me. He would know what to do. On the bus ride home from school I said to Anthony, “I’m going to call the police on Hammond.”
Anthony turned toward me, eyes wide open in disbelief, and said, “Are you crazy? And keep your voice down.”
“I don’t want him to do that to me again. It hurt bad and it was disgusting.”
“I know, but like I told you there are worse places out there. Besides, the cops’ll never believe you.”
“They will when you and the others tell them what’s been going on.”
“No, Frankie, we won’t tell. Not a word.”
“But…”
“No, buts. Why not tough it out a little longer?”
“No way! I’ll just run away. So what if I go back to the Home. Then maybe the next family will be better.”
“Yeah, maybe, but when the cops catch you they’ll bring you right back here first and Hammond may really hurt you bad.”
“Then I’ll do something before I run away to make Hammond not want to keep me anymore.”
“Like what, Frankie, burn the house down?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah, do something real bad and you’ll never get out of the Home again. No other family would take you in.”
“Nobody wants me anyway, Anthony,” I said as the tears began to run down my cheeks.
“No shit, kid. Nobody wants any of us either. Get used to it.”
I turned away from Anthony toward the window ashamed of my tears, looking for an answer, a way out. A big barn came into view. A barn! Not the house, but the barn!
CHAPTER SIX
I was still seething over the results of the meeting with the DA when I got a call on the radio to call Detective Mason on a land line.
“How are you doing, Danny?” Wally asked.
“Still pissed off. What’s up?”
“More bad news, I’m afraid.”
“Jeez, what now?”
“Yesterday Interpol called me. They located the Chandlers in Switzerland and I was able to speak with them at the hotel. Danny, they want no part of Frankie Chandler. They disinherited their son Jimmy when he married Angela. Obviously she was beneath their class. They had no reaction to Jimmy’s death other than could I possibly send them a copy of the death certificate.”
“Those heartless bastards!” I said. “And their own grandson. How could they not take him in?”
“Because it would interfere with their lifestyle—and those were Betty Chandler’s words.”
“Jesus!”
“There’s more. Angela Chandler is not Frankie’s biological mother. And the Chandler’s were not happy with their son’s first wife, Ellen Weston, either.”
“Wally, this is beginning to sound like a soap opera.”
“Indeed it is. Ellen booked on Jimmy and their infant son, and a year or so later he met Angela and they got married.”
“She accepted him with a year old boy from another woman?” I asked. “So maybe she isn’t bad at all.”
“Nobody’s all bad, Danny. You should know that by now.”
“But now Frankie has been abandoned twice – by two mothers.”
“Life’s crummy sometimes.”
“Wally, if Angela is not Frankie’s biological mother, can she be legally charged with abandoning him if she’s ever located?”
“Probably not, but it doesn’t matter anyway. Remember, we won’t extradite for misdemeanor abandonment? There’s no alarm out on her anymore.”
“Does Pam Saunders know any of this?” I asked.
“Let’s call her and fill her in right now, and then pop the big question to her.”
“What big question?”
“Do we tell Frankie that Angela’s not his real mother, and that she isn’t ever coming back for him?”
“Oh, shit,” I said for want of a more appropriate word.
Pam, on the other end of the telephone, remained silent for a good fifteen seconds after we gave her the story. She then said, “How about if I call the Chandlers and try to get them to change their mind?”
“I don’t think you will be able to do that, Pam,” Wally said. “And even if you do, what kind of life would Frankie have with those two loveless, conceited bastards?”
“You’re probably right,” she said. “So I guess Frankie’s in the system until he turns eighteen. What a rotten break.”
“How about taking him in, Pam?” I asked.
“Danny, I am a single mom with two young kids of my own. I earn a civil servant’s meager salary and my deadbeat husband misses more child support payments than he makes. Besides, it would probably be a conflict of interest.”
“I wish I could do it,” I said. “I know what’s in store for the poor kid, in and out of foster homes, in and out of the State Home, screwed over by the system. But a single young guy like me working around the clock could not provide a proper home for him, even if the court allowed it.”
“How about you, Wally?” Pam asked.
“Been there, done that,” he said. “Raised two of my own, a boy and a girl, and two foster kids, a boy and a girl. They are all grown and on their own and I’m looking forward to retiring in a couple years. Just me and the wife touring the U.S.A. in a great big camper.”
Pam sighed and said, “We all have great excuses, don’t we? That’s why there are so many kids without families.”
Neither Wally nor I said a word until Wally broke the silence and said, “So Pam, do we tell Frankie?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “The only thing left for him is the hope that Angela will come and take him home. Why kill that hope?”
“I agree,” Wally said.
“Me, too,” I said.
We had spared Frankie Chandler the pain of knowing Angela was not his mother and was never coming back for him, but by not taking him in we also condemned him to a life of sadness, neglect, false hope and possible mistreatment. Good-bye, kid – and good luck. You’ll certainly need it.
Two years had gone by in a hurry – I met a girl, Jean, fell in love, got engaged, got married and had a baby on the way. Occasionally, I would think of Frankie, of maybe visiting him, but I never could seem to make the time. A poor excuse, I know, and when I spoke of him to Jean she said, “You haven’t come out and said it, or asked me, but when you speak to me about Frankie I get the impression that you want to take him in to live with us.”
“Would you consider it?”
“Convince me, if you can, but I don’t think it will work.”
When I finished making my case, Jean took my hand and smiled. She said, “You know I always call you my young Sean Connery look-a-like, but now you’re jumping into his James Bond character a little strong.”
“Bond wants to save the world; I just want to save a young boy.”
“This may sound selfish, but we are having our very own baby in six months. He or she will be a full-time job and learning experience for both of us. We will not be able to give Frankie the attention he deserves.”
I had to acknowledge that she had a good point and I was beginning to have some doubts myself. I said, “I know what that poor kid is facing, I was there, you know.”
“I know,” she said. “And look how you turned out – a fine police officer, emotionally stable, with a pretty young wife and a baby on the way. Maybe Frankie will do as well. And I am pretty, right?”
“Yeah, maybe, he’ll do okay. And you certainly are pretty, my little blonde honey.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said with a seductive smile, “but to get back to Frankie, I just don’t think I could handle it at this time.”
“Okay,” I said, throwing in the towel. “”Let’s hope for the best for him.
”
Jean and I moved from our apartment in Mineola to a small cape cod in Franklin Square, a hamlet in the western part of Nassau County. The following year, true to his word, Wally Mason retired from the Force and began his journey across America. My son Patrick was born on time and Jean experienced a normal, healthy delivery.
At first I often thought of Frankie, especially when I went to the garage and saw his blue bicycle resting along the wall. One day I covered it up with a tarp to diminish the guilt I felt over abandoning him, even though I had come to the conclusion that we had made the right decision in not taking him in.
One day, when I was writing up a report in the station house, Pam Saunders walked by and I called out to her. She had just finished up on a sad case of child abuse and was obviously agitated by what had occurred. “You okay, Pam?” I asked.
“No, I am not. Sometimes I wish I had a gun with me to blow some of these so-called parents to hell.”
“Bad one?”
“Jesus, they burned their baby with cigarettes all over his body.”
“Oh my god,” I said thinking of my infant son. “What the hell for?”
“They said he was evil. They were burning the devil out of him.”
“Let’s change the subject. How are things with you and your kids?”
“Things are pretty good. And you?”
“Great. We have a new baby boy.”
“Congratulations. What’s his name?”
“Patrick.”
She smiled and said, “I was wondering if you might have named him Frankie.”
“Ah, Frankie Chandler,” I said. “Do you know how he’s doing?”
“No, I don’t. I’ve been so damn busy…”
“Me too. How about calling the boys’ school and finding out. Would you do that, Pam?”
“Sure,” she said smiling for the first time since our conversation began. “First thing tomorrow morning.”
“Great. I’m still working days. Have the desk officer get me on the phone if you find out anything.”