by Bob Nelson
I knew it! I knew it! The old bag skipped out on us . . . hooray! With that information, I happily put my exhausted little brother on my shoulders and walked the three miles to my mom’s work.
When I told Mom what Grandma had done, she sank down to the dirty bar floor, hugged us, and cried with shame. She left work early and took John and me home to her little one-room flat. It had a tiny kitchen, where she put a blanket down on the floor for John and me to sleep on.
About a month after we moved in with her, my mom told Little John and me that we had to go see someone who could help us. I made her promise it was not Grandma Witch, and she assured me it wasn’t.
We took a long bus ride and arrived at a huge concrete office complex. Inside we met a well-dressed man. He took us into his office, which was small but neat. They discussed the abuse Little John and I had suffered while living with our grandmother. My mom told the man that she was sick, battling with the bottle, and had very little money. I was expecting this kind gentleman, who listened carefully to my mother, to give her some paperwork for government assistance. When he finally spoke, his response stunned and angered me.
“You can leave both of them with us. We’ll take good care of them.”
I felt betrayed. I spun around, looked at her in disbelief, and screamed, “You’re giving us away, you bitch? You’re giving us away? I hate you! I HATE you!”
I was upsetting her, but I didn’t care. She wasn’t supposed to send us away again. She rose from her chair, her telltale twitching indicating her need for liquid courage. I followed her to the door, hollering “I hate you!” as she raced through the lobby. I watched as she disappeared in the pedestrian traffic. Without so much as a good-bye hug, she was gone.
When I returned to the office, Little John was scrunched up in his chair crying. I felt terrible for him. I felt terrible for both of us. The man sat quietly at his desk and waited for me to stop crying.
Once I was calm and ready to listen, he explained in a soothing tone, “Your mother is incapable of properly caring for you right now. Bringing you to us was the best she could do. I’ve assigned you to a really nice lady who will find you a nice foster home.” He stopped until he met my gaze. “I know it’s difficult, but this is only temporary. As soon as your mother is back on her feet, you’ll go back to her.”
About an hour later an attractive lady came in and introduced herself as Miss Jane. She told us she was going to be our case worker and friend, and no one would hurt us again. We liked her and talked for hours.
That man had been nice. Miss Jane was nice. They were all nice, but it made me feel worse that my family was so nasty and neglectful. I held my little brother that entire night, battling feelings I was far too young to describe.
We drove around for the next four days, examined by one foster family after another. As I feared, no one wanted two boys. Miss Jane tried her best, turning down several opportunities for John and me separately. At the end of the third night, she told me we were running out of options, and she was probably going to have to backtrack and place us in separate homes, at least temporarily. I hated that prospect, but I understood. We had to accept that we couldn’t be together.
On the fourth day we drove up to a large house in the middle of a small farm. We passed several cows, chicken cages, and countless rows of sprouting vegetables. A gray-haired woman came out to greet us. She looked just like Grandma Witch, and I felt a moment of panic, but this wasn’t Grandma. She had kind eyes and was smiling, something I had never seen the witch do.
Miss Jane climbed out of the car and talked to the lady, Mrs. Brown, about Little John and me. I sat in the backseat and listened, squeezing my little brother’s hand tight.
I liked this farm and this lady and didn’t want any more disappointments, so I hatched a plan. As the two women approached the car, I whispered to John to hang on to me and not let go—no matter what. Miss Jane opened the door and saw John and I huddled together, clutching each other like Siamese twins facing the scalpel. Miss Jane tried to cajole me out of the car, but I wouldn’t budge. Mrs. Brown opened the door on John’s side of the car; they tried to physically separate us, but I braced myself against the seat, drew John closer, and held on tighter. We began to cry.
Frustrated, the women backed out of the car and regrouped. I heard Miss Jane apologizing for our behavior, sounding out of breath. They walked out of earshot and talked. After about ten minutes (which felt like an hour), they returned to the car. John and I steeled ourselves against another attempt to separate us, but Miss Jane only stood back and told us to come out . . . both of us.
John and I scooted out the opposite side of the car from where the ladies stood, still clutching each other, just in case this was a trick. Keeping her distance, Miss Jane explained that we could both stay, but only for a couple weeks. In the meantime we would have to work in the gardens and share a bed. There were fourteen other boys here; two of them would have to bunk together to make room.
John and I didn’t hear anything past “You can both stay.” We were too busy cheering, jumping, and running around in little circles. Several kids working in the garden stood up and watched the spectacle. We didn’t care. We got to be together, and that was reason to celebrate!
Our two-week visit became a two-year stay. Mrs. Brown took a real liking to us. We worked hard at our many chores, but I didn’t care after our two years of sitting. We played hard too. My favorite place was a huge pond on the property with fish, turtles, and frogs. I felt like Huck Finn on a great adventure. There was always something to do, something to be explored.
One day Mrs. Brown called Little John and me down to the foyer. Some barely perceptible hitch in her voice made me apprehensive—maybe it was the man from the foster agency taking us away, or worse, taking only one of us. I had long feared such a day would come. As I walked down the stairs, I saw a man spilling over the big couch in the living room, his back to us. He was a big man in a shiny pinstriped suit. When I recognized him, I jumped the rest of the stairs in a single leap, leaving my confused brother behind.
It was Big John, our dad! He hadn’t forgotten us after all! I tore into the living room and dove into his arms. I was so overwhelmed; tears of joy ran down my face and dampened the soft fabric of his coat. He hugged me hard, and I inhaled his familiar aftershave. I could have stayed in this man’s arms forever, but he eventually broke the embrace. I stayed close, not wanting to let go, but his attention was no longer focused on me. He sat perfectly still, staring forward. I followed his eyes and noticed Little John standing there, half hidden behind the wall. The two had locked eyes.
This was the first meeting between father and son. A big smile slowly formed on our dad’s face. Little John just looked down at his worn shoes. Big John reached out, snatched his son into his arms, and held him for a long time. I felt a twinge of jealousy, but only for a moment. This man was, after all, his father too.
Within an hour, we were packed. I choked back some tears saying good-bye to Mrs. Brown. She had been so good to John and me, and we loved her for that. I gave her a big hug and ended that bittersweet chapter of my life.
John had rented a small cottage at a lakefront resort just outside Boston. When we arrived, our mom was waiting for us. She got down on her knees, swept Little John and me into her arms, and wept. Seeing her brought back cruel memories of all the times she gave us away, but I was still happy we were together as a family.
The initial bliss of our reunion didn’t last long. Big John and Mom fought constantly about her drinking or his inability to earn an honest living. Within a year he got caught for bookmaking and loan-sharking and got his giant butt thrown back in jail.
I was twelve years old now and learning how to survive on the streets. This was a critical juncture in my life; I didn’t want to go down the same path as my dad. Jail was not for me. We were broke, and often a twenty-five-cent package of bologna was dinner.
I found ways to earn money and learned to be resourceful.
A group of neighborhood boys hung around a depot where big trucks offloaded fresh produce, and they would scoop up the fruit spillage for sale elsewhere. There wasn’t any chance to move into this hustle—too many boys already. But I noticed several other truckers offloading at this depot, and most of them received little notice. The ones that caught my attention were the flower trucks. They spilled many perfectly good flowers that usually were swept up and tossed into large garbage bins.
I began surreptitiously picking up the flowers, trying not to attract attention. I didn’t want my competition to copy my idea. Then I was off to the bars. I polished a quick spiel, pitching “Flowers! Buy a beautiful flower for your pretty girl!”
I was stunned at the instant success. This was fun, easy, and quite profitable. It provided real money that my mom and I used to eat and pay bills. Little John had been shipped off to family.
I was thirteen when Big John got out of jail and our family was reunited again. I was a different person than when he had left: a very seasoned young man, far from the typically sheltered American kid. Through hard work, I had taken care of myself and my mother. I was proud that I had succeeded as a kid where my parents had failed. While I had great affection for Big John, I had little respect for him.
While Big John was in jail, I became interested in astronomy, which was now my secret passion. I was fascinated with space travel and exploration, and I spent most of my precious spare time reading astronomy and science-fiction books. I lived vicariously through visionaries such as Jules Verne, who was later complemented by Arthur C. Clarke and my personal hero, Carl Sagan.
One day while riding in Big John’s Cadillac, I took a chance and told him that I wanted to study astronomy when I grew up. Big John sniggered, “You’re being foolish. There’s no future in something as silly as astronomy. You need to put that out of your mind and concentrate on something you could earn a living at.”
I countered that I could make money at it; I would just have to go to school longer.
He gripped the steering wheel, teeth bared and tension rolling off every muscle and fat roll. He didn’t like the new me—the old me would never have argued with him. He shook his cantaloupe-size fist in my face and shouted, “If you want to see stars, I’ll show you some stars! Now forget it. You’re not going to be an astronomer. End of discussion. Got it?”
I got it, and I got a sickening feeling that the meat grinder of my childhood wasn’t quite ready to spit me out yet.
Midway through the fall semester of my sophomore year of high school, Big John, who had been arrested and sent to jail again, got out once more, and his Mafia money enabled us to live like rich people. We moved to Long Island and I attended a nice high school like the ones I’d seen on television. However, my dad’s gangster tactics made our home into a fucking nuthouse, and he terrorized me whenever his mood turned foul. I was thrilled for any excuse to escape, including a homecoming dance one Friday night, despite the fact that I didn’t know how to dance and felt self-conscious.
The girls at the party looked pretty, but they were silly and tipsy; their permissive parents had allowed them to drink at home beforehand. My eyes veered toward a shy girl sitting on a chair, almost hidden from the crowd.
I thought she didn’t look dangerous, and I liked her Italian beak nose; I floated over to her. “I’m Bob,” I said and flinched; that sounded so common.
“I’m Elaine,” she replied, and I relaxed a little; maybe simple introductions are common because they work. I grabbed a metal fold-up chair and sat down next to her.
When she wasn’t staring at the gymnasium floor, I could see that Elaine had soulful brown eyes, accenting her lovely face that wasn’t covered with makeup. As I asked her questions, she gave longer and longer responses, smiled more, and stopped tugging on the hem of her yellow skirt. After thirty minutes I mustered the courage to ask Elaine to dance. The band was playing “I Miss You So”; a slow one was easier for a novice like me. By the end of the song, I was plunged into the throes of new love for this delicate hummingbird. We talked all night and danced a few more times.
The following Sunday I took her to the movies, and afterwards she was my girlfriend. We were together every possible minute without raising my parents’ suspicions. Elaine was my rock, my proof of beauty and integrity, and the calm I never got at home. It seemed odd I had to wait until I was fifteen to discover the peace and serenity that I could find only in her arms.
Near the end of the following summer, my father informed me that our family would go on vacation to a beach resort in Massachusetts. I fought to stay home; the idea of being separated from Elaine by hundreds of miles for several weeks was unbearable to me. Of course Big John won the battle, and I sulked in the backseat during the long car ride to Nantasket Beach.
We had only been there for three days, and I was missing Elaine. Big John was overbearing as always. I escaped our oceanfront condo and his bellowing voice and headed for the Nantasket pier. I planned to launch my tiny rowboat at the pier, hoping to peacefully click off the time until this imprisoning vacation was over and I could return to Elaine. However, Big John had alternate plans for me—and my face.
I was talking to a pretty girl near the launch dock when I saw him darting toward me. He had given me strict orders against flirting with girls. He was gritting his teeth and readying both his fists. Most of the time he was a gentle giant, but he also had a foul temper and was prone to violence.
Dad was strong, but I had speed on my side. I wasn’t about to stand there and get my ass kicked. A walrus couldn’t catch a fox. Watching his oncoming charge, I simply leaped over the pier railing and landed in the water twenty feet below.
“Get out of the ocean and into my damn car,” Big John bellowed as I treaded water in the surf. I ignored him, just wanting to enjoy the warm sunlight at the pier. Suddenly his voice softened, “Bobby, please. Get into the car . . . please. And nothing will happen. Everything will be fine; we’ll just talk. I promise.” I acquiesced and trudged to his Cadillac.
That’s when I learned that a gangster has no respect for his own word or anyone else’s. As I closed the car door, his thick bicep punched me in the jaw. My head ricocheted against the passenger window and I tasted the metallic tinge of blood mixing with the salty remnants of ocean water. He started the car for home without a word. Something transformed in me in that moment—an assured knowing that he would never humiliate me again. Big John had battered me for the last time.
We were traveling about forty miles per hour, but I opened the door and tumbled out of the car onto the street. I rolled over several times, feeling the sharp gravel biting at my arms and stomach and through my pants. I heard the brakes screech, but Big John didn’t stop. I managed to stand and, although dizzy and disoriented, ran like someone chasing freedom. I never looked back. I wanted that image to stay forever with Big John—me running away in his rearview mirror.
While Big John might have terrified the underworld, I was Fast Bob; I knew “you couldn’t hit what you couldn’t catch.” I vowed that fat fuck would never catch me again.
If I had planned ahead, I probably would’ve gone home and gotten some food and an extra shirt before running away, but I knew that any hesitation, any procrastination, would only lead to additional humiliation. I stopped for a moment on the shoulder of the road on this narrow isthmus, breathing hard and looking at the road ahead and at Massachusetts Bay at both sides. In that moment, my problems transformed from getting beaten to death to starving to death. Where would I eat and sleep? I was penniless, so I hitchhiked to Long Island. I was glad I had kept Elaine secret from my parents. She didn’t need gangsters showing up on her doorstep, scaring her mother, and dragging her into Big John’s underworld.
I threw pebbles at Elaine’s window until I caught her attention. Thinking it was the neighborhood boys, she was about
to yell until she saw me. She grabbed her jacket, threw a leash on the dog, and was out the door twenty seconds later. Half a block from her house in front of a creek that ran between two split-level homes, she turned to me. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Oh, Bobby! What happened?” She brought her hand to my chin, caressing me so carefully, then she leaned in and blew soft kisses.
I had a thousand different feelings in that moment. I was ecstatic to be free, exhausted, pissed that my so-called father had created this fucked-up life for me, and passionately crazy about this girl before me. All those emotions combined into a droll response. “Big John happened.”
She brought out a lace handkerchief from her pocket, dipped it in the creek water, and wiped away the blood on my chin, elbows, shins, and countless other nicks. Biting her lip so that it almost bled too, she stayed silent for a long time, nursing all my Big John scars and the scrapes from my collision with the road.
“What will you do now?” she finally asked.
I grabbed her hands as the dog, her excuse to escape the house, nipped at my ankles, “I’m not going back. I’m a man now, and I’ll act as such.”
“Where will you stay?”
I didn’t want her to worry, so I lied. “Oh, I have some old friends from the neighborhood. Their parents aren’t around. I won’t have any problems.”
She nodded and hugged me for a long time, trying to make all the hurt go away. Off in the distance, we saw the front door of her house open and we had to say good-bye. She quickly kissed me and was gone.
God, I loved Elaine. I lived only for the moments I could spend with her. She kept me sane and grounded, and she gave me all the money she had; it was enough to keep me alive as I frantically looked for work. She went without lunch and the nice new things she could have bought with her babysitting money. She snuck me sandwiches and fruit, and I slipped into her house for a quick shower when her parents were working. Even then I had to be careful; her two annoying brothers would snitch to their parents if they knew. I wondered if her brother Tommy ever missed a couple shirts and great pair of jeans. I felt awful about asking Elaine for those favors, but during those days she taught me so much about love, caring, and unconditional giving—lessons I should have learned from my parents. I wanted to take care of her, protect her, and comfort her, not the other way around.