Chapter 4
The Ride Up Hill
It was almost a week before the state had found me a new home. My caseworker found a family that was still in the same area, so I wouldn't have to change schools. I needed normalcy, not disruption, as they put it, and going home was not the answer. Thank God for small favors even though I had an extremely tough time thanking him for anything back then and still do. To say I prayed a lot would be an understatement. I would pray for hours alone in the dark. All I got was silence; I didn't feel any comfort that people say they felt. I felt nothing as my voice became hoarse from crying, hoping to be heard, again nothing but silence.
My new family, known as the Steeds, foster home number seventeen, was a young couple with two children. They had a little boy named Oscar. He was about two; all it did was make me miss my brother Aaron even more than I watched him laugh and play with his big sister. Her name was Tabitha, Tabby, for short. It broke my heart even more, knowing that Aaron would receive love here.
His big sister loved him very much. She was only eight, about the same age as my brother. Tabby had brown hair and green eyes, like her mother. She also had pigtails and pink ribbons in her hair. Strawberry Shortcake was her idol, and her favorite color was pink, considering she had it all over her room. Tabby reminded me of a nicer version of Susan. She even wore glasses like me. I hated to start over, but there was nothing I could do. They bounced me from home to home.
Mr. Steed was nothing like Dad was. He was more forgiving when I came to acting out. Not once did he raise a hand against me, nor did his wife? They never chained me to my room or my bed. However, it would be incorrect to claim that I wasn't punished. If I wanted to run away, they would let me. Not once did they try to stop me.
We would sit in my room, and he would calmly sit next to me on the bed. We'd talk about life and the reasons why I chose to act out and calmly discussed other ways to carry out the same task. I never had to reason out different points of getting the same thing done using a different action or approach to getting what I wanted.
His cool brown eyes like my grandfathers smiled up at me, making me feel safe and secure. It always seemed his brown hair was out of place and he always licking it back down with his fingers. He was tall like a beanpole and a professor at BYU, teaching mathematics and science.
Like all foster homes, they had to meet certain requirements, and because of my persistent Grandmother, were LDS. They weren't hardcore compared to the Frys, but we still never missed a meeting. Plus, we never sat in the front row as I had done before. Mrs. Steed was a geek (which is a nicer word for nerd) and like her husband loved books of all kinds. She's a stay-at-home mom and took in custom sewing to help pay the bills, and she was an artist.
Short and scrawny, she was no taller than my Grandmother at five foot two. Despite her petite stature, she was beautiful and would wear glasses while reading the newspaper or the mail. When she put them on her head, she had a habit of losing them. Her shoulder-length, soft brown hair and crinkling green eyes when she smiled or laughed, along with her nose wiggling like a rabbit, made her truly captivating. While cooking or busy with the housework, she would sing like a meadowlark. She hated shoes just like me, so we ran barefoot the second I walked into the house. All our shoes would be piled by the door.
I was thankful for having a family that seemed to care about me and was willing to take me in, despite my many problems. But for once my records showed considerable improvements mostly because of the Fry's strictness. I had become a child that just needed to be loved and had time to grow. Not saying that I still didn't have my problems. Yet it wasn't in the beginning when I first arrived. I had only run away once, testing the waters. I was just too depressed; losing a home that I'd thought had loved me and would be there for me until the end. Only to be tossed out on the street like garbage. I couldn't eat or sleep without nightmares of Jeff haunting me. All I could see was his cold dead eyes staring up at me; chasing me, begging me to join him. If I could have, I would have just to feel loved again.
I clung to the darkness and resisted coming into the light, fearing that they would discover me hiding in the Steed's basement. Crying, praying alone in some forgotten corner; I wanted my Dad and my Mom to forgive me. All I could hear were their voices condemning me; their words echoed in my mind. 'Why didn't you stop him? We trusted you and this is how you paid us back. You murdered him. It is all your fault. You are nothing; you are trash. Why would somebody love you? You will always be a disappointment. You are your father's demon seed, an immoral, dirty freak.' I couldn't face anyone. I would scream in torment against the wall; my hands bloodied from hitting the hard cement wall. God again was still silent.
I ran away just so I could get them to love me again and forgive me; hoping they would take me back. But I couldn't find my way home. I ended up in the back of a police car breaking curfew as they contacted the Steeds to come to get me. As they searched the phone book since I neither knew the address nor the phone number. The Frys told them not to bring me back there ever again, since the police had a large folder with my name already on it. What can I say? It was the one thing I was great at and that was running away.
The Steeds were understanding and did their best to comfort me. As they went back and gathered my meagre belongings and put me in my own room, having Oscar move in with Tabby so I could have my privacy. They granted me permission to attend the funeral on the condition that I remained in the background. But I could not help myself, as I ran up and fell on my knees, begging them to forgive me. My new mom and dad picked me up and carried me out. While they shouted the same hateful words; it was the last time I ever saw them. The tears would not stop as I kneeled in front of Jeff's grave, begging him to forgive me. Wanting to know why he did this to me as I cried into another stranger's arms as my new Dad held me against him and my new Mom held my hand and tried to brush my tears away.
Because of exhaustion, I could not bear the brightness of the light. I knew I smelled bad, and I didn't care. My clothes ripped into shreds. I had stolen a knife from the kitchen and had cut myself many times. Sitting in the dark, feeling the warm blood and the pain I had caused, hoping it would console me. While I sat alone in the darkness listening to the cold voices, I welcomed them; I welcomed death as if he were my friend.
I had become delirious and had a fever that refused to break. I couldn't eat. I vomited at the mere thought of food, and it covered me. In my desperate state, I would toss and turn, screaming for Jeff and pleading for forgiveness. Any sudden noise would cause me to scream as my dreams became my waking nightmares. All I could see was Jeff standing next to me, getting closer as I felt the cold steel; I tried to plunge the knife only to be caught as someone screamed. "No!" I fell delirious in my Dad's arms.
I barely remember him picking me up in his arms and carrying me up the stairs as my sobs become hoarse and whispering, begging. "Please let me die… nobody can love a murderer." I remember waking up in the tub as the icy water hit me. I felt as if I was drowning. My hands fighting as I gripped my attacker's arms as they held me screaming, but as I looked up and saw my father's face and Jeff was standing next to him.
A warm, soothing voice broke through my rage and delirium, comforting me. Soothing my fears as she held me in her arms; I could feel her tears as they fell against my bare back. They gently removed the remnants of my torn clothing. I sobbed. "It was my fault; all my fault Jeff is dead because of me. Please let me die." I felt the bandages as my new Mom wrapped them around my many cuts on my arms, legs, hands, and chest to stop the bleeding. I would only scream, begging her to stop, letting the blood run free. While she tried to pry my swollen fingers open. I could see the fresh drops of blood staining red against the white porcelain tub.
My Dad's voice soothed me as I soon realized they weren't drowning me while Dad finished cutting my ripped jeans stained with my own feces and vomit. His warm eyes held me with such love that I could feel the darkness leave me. The ghosts faded away as they laid me back, comforting me. When realized I was naked, and my face turned red and wanting to hide back into my Eskimo suit. The smell from my clothes piled in the corner reminded me of the smell of the prison, not more than a year ago.
I screamed in terror as I tried to cover up my body; trembling in fear as I waited for my rapist and abuser to touch me. Only to fall back against the side of the tub as Mom caught me in her arms. Reassuring me, everything was all right. Placing a wet towel around my waist; while my new Dad removed the ruined, discarded clothing from the room and the smell that inhabited them. I must have fallen asleep for when I woke; Dad had placed me in my bed. My new Mom shushed me when I came to a start not knowing my new surroundings.
The bedroom was brightly lit as the sun shone through the window; I was used to the darkness as the light hurt my eyes. The darkness was the only thing I felt safe in these days. Mom calming my fears, placed another cool cloth on my head and on my chest. They bathed me twice that day to break the fever and once more, after I threw up all over myself and my bed.
I couldn't keep anything down except warm broth or soup. For nearly a week, I was sick, and the nightmares came and went. Mom would read to me during the day and Dad would read to me at night. Not once was I left alone as they stayed by my bedside, watching my new brother and sister play in the room. Sometimes I would wake up to find Tabitha sleeping next to me and her head on my bare chest nuzzled against me. While Oscar would sleep against Mom's shoulder; her warm smile always made me feel better.
It became a habit to find my sister in my bed with her thumb in her mouth. I didn't mind it as I placed my arm around her and went back to sleep. There was nothing wrong with new beginnings; it's not like I hadn't done this before. I liked calling him Dad and her Mom. It made things easier and until home visits got in the way and the words just slipped out unexpectedly. I always called my parents as far back as I could remember Mamma and Daddy. It shocked everyone, including me, as I said to them, and I answered: "yes sir and yes ma'am."
I'll never forget my mother's reaction. Her eyes got huge and in total shock as I tried to recall the words as if I had just sworn. My father's face was unreadable but growled an approval saying. "At last, someone has taught you some manners, boy."
All I could say was 'yes sir' and stood tall with my shoulders back as I headed back to my room to puzzle this new complex problem. My sister Susan tried to tease me about it, but my mother wouldn't hear about it and for the first time she seemed proud of me instead of disappointed in me for a change. My mannerism changed, and I continued to grow and seldom got into fights with my father when I came home to visit, but his attitude towards me never changed. In fact, he growled more angrily if I tried to call him Dad. Telling me and my brother Aaron never to call him that, resulting in a hard slap across the face. Instead, we either avoided him or called him Jim, but never Dad or father. I avoided my sisters goading me and learned to puzzle out my choices before I did something stupid.
My Dad/Steed and Mom/Steed were a major influence and one of the best role models I had to date. It seemed I had a stable home in both places for now. My grades were mostly A's and B's in all my subjects. I still had anger issues, but few. Some of my classes made it a requirement for me. It's not my fault he didn't have the sense to duck.
We became friends soon after. But my shoes and socks kept the teacher company as they sat against the desk. I didn't mind. I despised shoes as I padded softly. It came to be a habit that some students teased me about it by yelling down the hall. "Look, here comes Huckleberry Fin." Until my enemy and who would soon become my new best friend knocked him over with his size twelves shoe hit them right in the old kisser.
His name was Ron Chaplin, and he earned his pet's name, Chipmunk, because of his yellow hair and the small black tail of hair he kept in a ponytail. When he smiled or laughed, you could see his buck teeth and his big brown eyes. Ron was good at climbing trees. Tall as beanpole, some called the little giant at an even six feet and scrawny, but excellent wrestler in gym class.
It seemed we were always together as we dangled our shoes over our shoulders and walked barefoot through the hall. It was not long before we were both setting out our shoes and socks next to the teacher's desk; taking our seats next to each other. It was not long until we became five, adding Brad Simons and Jake Slayer and his friend Rocky Fillmore known as Rocko. They were my crew. Ron was the leader of our group. No one dared make fun of us, and the bullies never bothered us the rest of the year.
Brad Simons earned a reputation as the class clown and quickly joined our group as the third member. Brad Simons, known as the class clown, had a built like a brick house and loved showing off his muscles in class and in the gym. Talk about a six-pack he could bench press one-eighty without breaking a sweat. He always stuck up for the little guy as he put the guy causing the problems in a half nelson smelling his armpit of hell until they cried, uncle. Blond hair, blue eyes; the girls called him a dreamboat. Loved kissing them in the back corners and liked it when they felt his biceps. I think his shoes and socks could put the rest of us to shame.
Jake Slayer was his compadre (which means his best friend and partner in crime) and known for his Texas accent. We called him skunk, because of his raven black hair and white strip down the middle, and that he used way too much cologne that could stink up any room. His dazzling blue eyes and sculptured face made him a pretty boy even though he was small for his age, but do not let that fool you, he could punch you hard enough that it would leave a bruise for a week. Pin a guy in sixty seconds and won several awards doing it.
Rocky Fillmore, known as Rocko our fifth member was a foster kid like me and almost had lived in as many foster homes as I have from the age of seven. We called him Rocko because he was training to be a boxer and held the middleweight title for our school. He loved nothing better than boxing and having the girls watching him box without his shirt. Unlike me, my problem was that I would decline more often than not when teams selected skins against shirts. I would always be the last one to take a shower as I sat and waited outside of the shower when nobody was looking; until my friends waited with me, making it nearly impossible to shower alone, even more so since my coach knew about my problem early on thanks to the Frys. The battle was lessening, but was still a battle that I would sometimes win and sometimes not.
People teased Rocko for being black because of the color of his skin. But in our group of misfits, nobody cared what color anyone's skin was. He still bled red like the rest of us and spilled enough of it in the ring or the playground. In some ways, he made it the battle of my Eskimo suit seem mute because of the color of his skin. His build was like Brad's, with a tight six pack and steely black-brown eyes that turned gold in the sun or red when he was angered or in the ring. He towered over all of us at seven feet. Coach kept trying to put him on the basketball team, but he kept knocking the players out when they fouled him.
The teachers were beginning to think they were shoes salesman's, with five pairs of shoes lining the front of their desk every day. They would just watch us calmly each day as we padded barefoot to and from our seats and wiggled our bare toes under the desk. Mom and Dad busted a gut when they came to parent teacher's conference as the teachers mentioned something about foot odor. Dad didn't hesitate and bought a can of deodorant and sent it as a gift to the teachers that complained; to which he included a card that read 'From Huckleberry and Friends.'"