Mommy, Mommy : A Danny Boyland Novel

by Henry Hack

“Thank the good Lord for that,” Mrs. Hammond said touching my shoulder.

  “And then I ran into the house and yelled for everyone to wake up.”

  The chief sent a couple of his men into the barn and in a few moments they came out with a water-soaked box of Marlboros and the matches.

  After the fire department rolled up their hoses and drove away, Mr. Hammond smacked me across the face with the back of his hand, drawing blood from my nose. “I don’t care if it was an accident,” he said, “and I’m not so sure I believe it was – but you’re outta here tomorrow. Pack your things, Frankie, you’re history.”

  “But, sir, please, I didn’t mean to, I…”

  “Shut up,” he said, “I ain’t finished with you.”

  He removed his thick jeans’ belt and whacked me across the shoulders with it. “Jethro,” the kindly Mrs. Hammond said, “maybe…”

  “Be quiet, woman. He needs a good beating. Like I said, I ain’t finished with this little bugger yet.”

  By nine o’clock the following morning, despite their lack of sleep, the kids were awake to say good-bye to me – their newest and shortest stay member. Although there was sadness in their faces, there also seemed to be a bit of wistfulness, as if they too might be wishing they were leaving the Hammond farm. “Let’s go,” Mr. Hammond said. “Anthony, take that other bag.”

  Anthony and I walked behind Hammond as he headed out to the pickup. “Well, you did it,” Anthony whispered. “You’re outta here, you son-of-a-gun.”

  “It was an accident,” I said with a big grin on my face.

  “You’re pretty smart for a nine-year old. I’ll give you that.”

  “I’ll be ten in a couple of weeks,” I said.

  “Well, Frankie, wherever you end up I hope you make it to eleven. I sure hope you did the right thing.”

  Hammond grabbed my arm and said, “Get it the truck.”

  “Bye, Anthony,” I said.

  The ride back to the Home took well over an hour and Hammond never uttered a word to me. I didn’t care. I was getting away from him and his night visits. He pulled up in front of the front entrance. He opened the door and grabbed me by the arm saying, “Get out you little bastard.”

  I wanted to curse back at him but kept quiet. He sat me in a chair outside the Headmaster’s office and walked inside. He came out a few short minutes later leaving the door to Mr. Eglund’s office open. He walked past me without looking at me and without saying a word. Fine by me, I thought. Walk out of my life forever you dirty, old bastard.

  Eglund said, “Come in Frankie,” and when I did he kept me standing in front of him and asked if what Hammond had told him was true.

  “What did he tell you?” I asked.

  “That you set fire to his barn.”

  “Yes, sir, I did. But it was an accident. I snuck out there to smoke a cigarette and I guess I fell asleep.”

  “Where did you get the cigarette?”

  “I took the pack and the matches from the kitchen table.”

  “So you stole them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did anything happen in the time you spent with Mr. and Mrs. Hammond that made you set that fire?”

  “Oh, no sir. They treated me fine. Like I said, the fire was an accident. I would have no reason to set it.”

  “I’m going to send someone out there to talk to the other children about this.”

  “That’s okay. We all got along.”

  “You know that this is a serious mark against you. Prospective foster parents and those interested in adoption may not want a boy who steals and set fires.”

  “I did steal the cigarettes, but I didn’t set the fire on purpose,” I said with determination. I didn’t like lying to Mr. Eglund. He was a pretty nice man, tall, thin always well-dressed in a three-piece suit. But when he smiled he sometimes reminded me of a long skinny snake ready to sink his fangs into me.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s get you a place to sleep. Bring your things.”

  On March 22, I celebrated my tenth birthday. The 137 boys with me at the Home sang an out of tune Happy Birthday song to me and I received one extra chocolate chip cookie for dessert. There were no gifts. Mommy didn’t come. She did not send a card. She did not call me on the telephone.

  The school had taken in some older, mean, tough kids during my stay on the farm and they had taken to bullying the younger ones, me included. Four of them, all around sixteen years old, grabbed me one day and terrorized me. They were about to sodomize me when one of them thought he heard someone coming not too far away. He said, “You got a reprieve for now kid, but we’ll get you someday.”

  And get me they did—repeatedly. Gang raped me and forced me to suck their penises. I was too small to fight them off and too afraid to inform Mr. Eglund. I wasn’t the only young boy to get sodomized – there were several others, some as young as six years old, who fell victim to the predators. Finally, some boy got up enough courage to tell Mr. Eglund what was going on, but Eglund ignored the complaint and reprimanded the boy for concocting a lie. “Son,” he said, “if anything like that were going on here my staff would have notified me at once.”

  The night staff, when all the acts took place, consisted of one dorm supervisor who was fast asleep thirty seconds after he turned off the lights. The sodomy continued unabated for almost a year when a rare occurrence took place. A mother came to the school to re-claim her eight-year old son after placing him there over two years ago. Her economic situation in life had dramatically improved and for once there was much joy as they prepared to leave. When the boy, Kevin Morton, was safely at home only then did he tell his mother about the repeated acts of sodomy he was subjected to. She believed him and took him to a pediatrician who confirmed it.

  Enraged, Mrs. Morton made an appointment to see Mr. Eglund and threatened to sue the school, the state, and him personally for several million dollars. Eglund calmed her down, and after a long discussion, she agreed to accept a deal that included medical care and psychological counseling for her son up to age eighteen and a cash settlement of $50,000. Her part of the deal was silence.

  Realizing he had dodged a big bullet in the form of scandal, lawsuits and his career, Eglund fired the night dormitory attendant and replaced him with four new ones who assured him they would not sleep while on duty. The predation finally stopped and my eleventh birthday passed uneventfully and in similar manner as my tenth, although this time the one extra cookie was an Oreo.

  That summer a middle-aged couple came in and spoke to me and a few other boys. My hopes were not high as this would be my seventh interview since my return. I guessed the barn fire had a lot to do with no one selecting me. Mr. and Mrs. Ryan asked the usual questions and then Mrs. Ryan asked me about the fire. I related the story, just as I had told it to Mr. Eglund. Mr. Ryan whispered something to his wife then said, “I like a boy who admits what he did, like taking those cigarettes. Most kids would lie about that.”

  “And the fire was definitely an accident?” Mrs. Ryan asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  The Ryan’s chose me to come live with them and, to my most pleasant surprise, they lived in the suburban hamlet of Bethpage, about two miles from where I had grown up. The Ryan’s were decent people who had lost their son the year before. While riding his bicycle after school he was struck by a delivery truck and killed. His name had been Peter and he had been about the same age as me. The Ryan’s had one other child, a daughter named Margaret, who was approaching thirteen years old.

  The first day in the Ryan home, a pleasant three-bedroom ranch with a spacious backyard, Mr. Mike Ryan, a genial, twinkly-eyed man, explained to me that they were not looking for a replacement for their lost son – not exactly, that was.

  “What the mister is saying,” Mrs. Nora Ryan said, “is that we were all geared up for two children – a boy and a girl. We figured that another boy could use the things our son had – the bedroom, the baseball equipment the video g
ames – all that. We don’t expect you to be our Petey. We expect you to be your own self.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said to the woman, who seemed even nicer than her husband, beginning to feel some happiness for the first time in over two years.

  “Of course, there’s no bicycle now,” Mr. Ryan said, “but if things work out here, maybe we can get you one.”

  “I have a bicycle already,” I said. “Officer Boyland is keeping it for me. He also has a box of my toys.”

  “And who is Officer Boyland?” Mrs. Ryan asked.

  “He’s the one who came to the house when my Mommy left me. He works in the precinct around here.”

  “Well, we’ll call this Officer Boyland tomorrow and see what we can do about getting your things over here,” she said.

  The next night after supper there was a knock on the door and Mr. Ryan let Officer Boyland in. He was wearing regular clothes and smiled when he saw me. We shook hands and he said, “You certainly got taller since I last saw you, Frankie. How are you doing?”

  “I’m doing okay,” I said.

  “Well, come on out and help me get your things out of my truck.”

  “I’ll give you two a hand,” Mike said. “And when we’re done, we’ll have some cake and coffee.”

  I wheeled my bicycle into the garage and stared at it. “It still looks the same,” I said. “Like brand new.”

  “I cleaned it up a bit,” Boyland said. “Tightened all the bolts and oiled up the chain.”

  “Thank you,” I said as I ran my hands over the gleaming chrome and blue enamel frame.

  “Come on inside,” Mr. Ryan said. “Don’t worry Frankie, it’ll be here in the morning.”

  My bike was back! And my toys! It was as if my former life was slowly returning. And now all that was missing was Mommy. Maybe now she would return too.

  CHAPTER NINE

  During my first few weeks in Los Angeles my main concern was getting stopped by the police who would discover that I was wanted by the New York police for murdering my husband. On November 17, I turned thirty-two years old. Now a month out of Long Island, I began to relax and sought out the L.A. street people who, for a few dollars, directed me to the underground document forgers. For the right price – a hefty one – I was now Maria Theresa Ferraro, in possession of a New York State Department of Health official certificate of birth with a raised seal, to prove it.

  With this single document and proof of residency – my six-month lease on my seedy apartment – I was able to get a driver’s license, new California plates for my car and a new social security number. I took my original birth certificate, New York driver’s license and original social security card and carefully burned them over the gas stove and flushed the ashes down the sink drain. My old life was now behind me and a new one ready to begin – with a new name, and soon a new job and a new look. And maybe, just maybe, in the far future, a new husband.

  Good-bye and good riddance to Angela Dolores Capozzi Chandler and welcome to the brand-new Maria Theresa Ferraro!

  With my money just about gone, I had to find a job – soon. I applied to the local school district, but backed off when I learned I would have to be fingerprinted and background checked. There was no way I could do that. And, unfortunately, private schools had the same requirement. I knew very little else other than being a teacher’s aide, except waitressing which I had done while attending community college. I had no choice, so I checked the newspapers want ads and selected three restaurants that were near a bus line and within a reasonable distance from my apartment.

  The first restaurant I applied to hired me on the spot after a ten minute interview. The manager had been desperate for help – two waitresses quit recently, one for marriage and one who wanted to see the world. I was attractive and intelligent and had some experience. “Maria,” Mr. Damiano said, “you will do very well here. Business is booming. We do a lot of expense account lunches and dinners here at Maxwell’s and, as you know, the bigger the bill, the bigger the tip.”

  Maxwell’s was essentially a steak house, but they now offered a variety of veal, pork and excellent fresh seafood. Dinner for two, which usually included a cocktail or two, or a bottle of wine, or both, ran to $150, sometimes more. And the patrons of Maxwell’s were generous tippers most in the 20% plus range. I did very well and when my lease expired I got a better apartment, closer to the restaurant and forsook the bus and used my car. Tony Damiano was pleased with my work saying, “You’re doing great, Maria, the customers love you. Don’t you leave me. Don’t do something foolish like getting married and running off like Caroline did.”

  “I’m not interested in marriage, Mr. Damiano,” I assured him. But I certainly had offers – not for marriage, but for dates, all of which I declined. Tony Damiano frowned on it as bad for business and I agreed. If I were going to go out on a date it would not be with a customer, but where else would I get one? I worked six days a week from 11:30 in the morning until the dinner crowd left, most nights after 11:00 p.m. My one day off, Monday, when Maxwell’s was closed, I spent cleaning my apartment and grocery shopping. I resigned myself to working, socking away the money and putting my social life on hold for awhile. Besides, it was too soon after Jimmy and maybe I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship now anyway.

  One evening about a year after I started there and after the restaurant closed up, I was walking to my car in the parking lot when a voice called my name. I turned around to face one of the restaurant’s most frequent, and best, customers – Thomas O’Shea.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. O’Shea,” I said. “You startled me.”

  “I’m sorry, Maria, but I wanted to speak with you – ask you something. I didn’t want to do it inside the restaurant because I know Tony frowns on his staff fraternizing with the customers, a wise policy I must agree.”

  “What can I do for you?” I asked, sizing up the affable O’Shea.

  “Would you join me for a drink? Just one before we both head home?”

  I looked at him and, to my own surprise said, “Sure, why not?”

  We walked a block and half to a decent cocktail lounge and went in and got a small table in the bar area. O’Shea ordered a Chivas on the rocks and I a glass of Pinot Grigio wine. I knew O’Shea well and he always asked for a table in my area. He was a generous tipper and always a gentleman. He smiled at me often, but never openly flirted or made suggestive remarks as some of my other customers did. I could not say I was overly attracted to him, but because he was an apparently decent guy, maybe that’s why I accepted this invitation.

  We spent almost two hours together and had several drinks and truly enjoyed each other’s company. O’Shea insisted on putting me into a cab for my trip home and offered to give me return fare for the morning ride back to the restaurant. I had protested that I was okay to drive but he said, “Not with the DWI crackdown, Maria. I’m taking the next taxi home myself.”

  As the cab headed home, I felt happy with Tom O’Shea. He had not come on strong – he had not even asked for my telephone number. I hoped he would soon do so. Maybe I had finally found a decent man.

  On his next meal at the restaurant Tom O’Shea took advantage of a chance meeting with me at the waiter’s area to ask me out on a formal date – dinner and a show. I accepted and wrote my phone number down on a cocktail napkin which he placed in his jacket pocket. Our courtship continued on a regular, but discreet basis and it was only after a dozen dates that we finally made love.

  After six months going out together, Tom asked me to marry him, offering me his undying love and a one and a half carat diamond engagement ring. My woman’s intuition was that this moment had been imminent and I had thought it over very carefully concluding that being married to Tom O’Shea would be a good situation with no apparent drawbacks. Tom was a happy, genial companion, nice-looking with wavy light-brown hair and blue twinkly eyes and we were both friends and lovers. And the fact that he owned a successful business – a trucking company – put to
rest any financial fears I might have harbored. So what I – the newly-minted Maria Theresa Ferraro – said to Tom O’Shea was, “Oh, Tom, I love you. Of course I will marry you.”

  I gave up my apartment and moved into Tom’s spacious ten-room house in one of the nicer neighborhoods of Los Angeles. It was not Beverly Hills, but not far from it. He was thirty-seven years old and divorced with no children. We had not discussed having children together and I wondered what we would decide when the topic inevitably arose. I thought of Frankie Chandler then and what I had done to him. How had he fared? He would be almost eleven now and hopefully having a happy childhood with a loving family. If only he had not looked so much like Jimmy…

  Tony Damiano shook his head in despair when I – his best waitress – informed him of my decision to get married and leave his employment. “I really enjoyed working here, Tony, but Tom insists that he wants me to be a stay at home wife and help him socially with his business connections.”

  “I don’t blame him,” he said, “but the door is always open for you if you get bored or need extra money.”

  “Thank you, Tony – oh, you will come to the wedding won’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said taking my hand and kissing me on the cheek.

  My life had been a good one with Tom for over three years. We tried to have children beginning about a year after we were married, but nothing happened for reasons that the doctors could not explain. I could not help but think it was God’s punishment for having abandoned Frankie. Why should he bless me with another child when I discarded my first one? And if I could remind God that Frankie was really not my child, he would have shaken his head and told me that to him there was no difference at all.

  Tom suggested looking into adopting a baby or getting a young child from the State Boy’s Home, but I rejected that idea with a weak explanation. “If God wants us to have children he will bless is with one of our own.” I could not, of course, tell him, “I know a boy we can probably adopt. He’s about thirteen now. You’d love him. There’s a slight problem though. I walked out on him four years ago when he was nine. Left him a nice note and an empty glass. Let’s see if he wants to come live with us.” No, I couldn’t say that to Tom, could I?