Choices Made: The Street Years

By Christine McMahon

Choices Made: The Street Years

Shocked into a new life with his mother's death, Jamy begins a search for his biological father, but succumbs to the dangers of the street after a vicious sexual attack.

Haunted by the act, he is too afraid of his father's possible rejection to pursue his search.
Becoming another lost kid, beaten, pimped, and drugged, Jamy grows more introverted by the barrage of abuse until, in defense of others like himself, he finds a dark future as a gang leader and protector - The Street Lord of the 42nd Neighborhood.

Prostitution, drugs, and protection money fund his generosity to others, but the realizations of becoming a father at 16 urges him deeper into danger for want of money. Moments alone with his son make him dream of the normal life he once had.

To protect himself and his new friends from the rising power of the drug lords he now works for, he devises his Domino Game. Based on his skill as an artist, his sketches and diaries become the pieces of the game.

Dominoes placed, Jamy decides to start toppling the world of the drug lords when he agrees to become a 'mole' for the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs (BNDD) in exchange for freedom from prosecution.

Though freedom is at hand, he returns to the street to save the undercover agent he befriended. Nearly losing his life, his foot is set upon on a path toward a life that holds his biological father.

(Choices Made Series consists of 4 books - 1 - Street Years, 2 - Fathers and Sons - 3 Missouri or Misery, 4 - Always -- Look for them all here on Smashwords!)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine McMahon
• Release date: Jun 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301013777

Christine McMahon

Christine McMahon has always taken pleasure in a good story and the craft of writing, but didn’t pick up the challenge of a novel until shortly after her mother’s prediction of a beautiful little boy entering her life.It is said people nearing the end of their lives not only see those gone before them, but also see the futures of those close to them. One evening, a month before Christine’s mother died of cancer, her mother, Rose, asked her, ‘Who is that beautiful little boy standing next to you?’Of course, there was no one there, but after her mother’s death, she found herself with pen in hand, beginning Jamy’s story.What Midwest Book Review said of Book 1 - printed version:“Choices Made: The Street Years is the debut novel of Christine McMahon and clearly establishes her as a gifted storyteller, able to take her reader into a gritty world of drug addiction, poverty, and life on the street.”Christine and her husband Joe live in rural Wisconsin along with their champion Rhodesian Ridgeback, Moy, and her new buddy, Taigh.Choices Made Series:Book 1 - Choices Made: The Street YearsBook 2 - Choices Made: Fathers and SonsBook 3 - Choices Made: Missouri or MiseryBook 4 - Choices Made: Always (Final in Series)

Book preview

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

ADDITIONAL TITLES BY AUTHOR

BOOK 2 INTRO

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks to Kathy, who read my first chapter and encouraged me to give her each chapter as I finished it. To Tory for her continued truthfulness as to where the story worked and where it didn't. For Chris at UW-Madison, who gave such excellent detailed critiques which taught me so much. Ross and Kim who, when it was complete, asked the questions that would improve my characters' lives. Karen popped me a copy when I ventured mailing it out. Marge, thank you for the incredible editing. And Joe, who certainly put up with a messy house and late meals, while I wrote away the hours, and who always encouraged me to get it out there, and my Dad for giving me that final push to publish it.

THANK YOU ALL.

PROLOGUE

St. Louis, Missouri, 1969.

Angels' tears dropped to earth as gentle rain filtered through the cold December air to drift into the busy city as a light snowfall.

Multi-prism snowflakes swirled past the graceful curve of Saroyan's Arch, the symbolic gateway into this old port city. Tugboats and rusted barges, momentarily brightened by God's paintbrush, glistened silvery white.

An updraft caught a singular delicate flake and sent it skyward again. Higher and farther, past the brightly lit green copper dome of the old courthouse, past red brick buildings, it swirled down streets filled with last minute holiday shoppers to a quiet little cemetery, where below congregated a tiny group of people.

CHAPTER 1

A pathetically gray sky held Christmas Eve in St. Louis captive. Snowflakes clung to fifteen-year-old Jamy Chance MacGregor like a blanket. They mixed with the tears streaming down his cheeks and dripped from his patrician nose. Pulling his thin coat closer around his body did nothing to warm him. He watched as they lowered his mother's coffin into the sodden black earth.

Chatelaine Chaumbers

Born 1934, Paris, France

Died 1969, St. Louis, Missouri

Simple words etched into the small brass plaque which was fastened to the plain wooden coffin. Not much of a legacy for the woman who stood up to society by giving him life. She had been segregated from the 'good Christian' families by keeping him, and he had been segregated from 'good people's' children by being illegitimate. A heavy burden to bear for all his years, it proved more difficult now that no friends stood by his side.

His dark chili spice colored hair hung in damp ringlets about his shoulders from the snow, falling faster now. Shoes, a size too small, pinched his cold numbed feet as he slid in the muck formed by the mud and snow. He reached for the silver guardian angel pendant his mother had given him, with the consoling words, Ils protégeront et te garder. ("They will protect and keep you.") The pendant barely touched the emptiness he felt, while clumps of mud thudded against the cover of the coffin. The hollow sound dredged a moat around the walls already surrounding his heart.

His strong square jaw worked as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. Why couldn't God let her be with me one more day? Why not one more Christmas together? Why did she have to die? She never did anything wrong. He said the words quietly as his anger collapsed into hurt. The tears flowed again.

* * *

S'il vous plaît, Jamy begged, S'il vous plaît, je ne veux pas aller. Je veux rester ici. Je peux me débrouiller.

Speak English. I can't understand a word you're saying. Half English. Half French. Didn't your mother teach you how to talk decent? Mr. Kratz, the social worker complained.

Ple – ee – ee – se, Jamy begged, I want to stay here. Jamy slammed the door to his mother's apartment. I can take care of myself. Jamy rubbed his forearms against his ribs to stop the sweat dripping from his armpits. It was always his first sign of over-whelming frustration. It in itself frustrated him. It wasn't cool to have perspiration rings enveloping the underarms of his shirt.

No, you're only fifteen; you have to come with me.

I have taken care of myself the entire time my mother was sick. I'll be fine. His upturned eyes looked into the social worker's. Just shy of six feet tall, he stood inches away from the man who now attempted to change his life.

Stop looking at me that way. Your eyes give me the creeps. What the hell color are they anyway? Green? Who ever heard of a boy with green eyes? Red hair and green eyes. You must have been a real joke being born at Christmas time.

The biting words dented his already fragile grip. He lowered his gaze blinking back the tears.

Mr. Kratz said curtly, I told you I'm going to find you a foster home after Christmas. You can't stay alone.

Jamy looked around the small apartment. The only home he had ever known. Soft blue walls muted gray brown with age, and limp lacy curtains gently fluttered at drafty windows. When Maman was well, the lace was always crisp with starch. So much starch. My shirts were always scratchy. He shifted in his threadbare shirt. The softness and wrinkles were another reminder his Maman was gone.

Jamy asked, Pourras vous appleller à mon père?

Recalling the earlier chastisement about speaking French when Mr. Kratz ignored his question, he repeated, Will you call my father? I wrote him letters ever since I could write. He'll let me live with him. Maman said I should go live with him. Will you call him?

Your parents never married. He hasn't seen you since you were a baby. I doubt he wants anything to do with you.

What about Paul Linders? He's my dad. He and Maman were going to be married when he returned from Vietnam. He wants me. He said he did. He said I could have his name.

He never married your mother and has no legal rights to you. You told me yourself that you haven't heard from him since March. I'm not going to chase down people who don't want you. Just drop it, kid. I just want to get home and get my tree up so my wife smiles this Christmas, and my kids don't drive me nuts all night.

You didn't call anybody. You don't know they don't want me. His voice cracked and squeaked under the tension.

If they wanted you, kid, you wouldn't be heading for foster care, would you?

The words stung Jamy into silence. His father wasn't in his life. Paul hadn't married his mother. People who don't want you. The words cut his insides, making it hard to breathe. I want them. I want my father. I want my family. Why don't they want me?

His voice quavered when he asked Mr. Kratz, Can I...can I take anything with me?

I'll give you an hour to get what you can carry. No boxes. No junk. I want to get home. It is Christmas Eve, you know.

He knew it was Christmas Eve. His birthday, December 21, 1969, was only just past. The day his mother died. Now, only hours after her funeral, this man was taking him away from here. He lowered his head as the weight of his loss dragged on him. Christmas – no mother – no home.

* * *

Mr. Kratz answered the knock at the door. Standing in the hallway, leaning on her cane, stood Mrs. Feinstein. Jamy glared past Mr. Kratz at the gnarly old woman. His armpits were giving up a river of sweat, but he didn't bother rubbing his forearms against his ribs. He released some frustration as he silently mouthed the words, old bitch.

Do not speak such vulgar words. Mauvais, Jamy. Bad, Jamy. Chills ran his spine as his mother's words bit his conscience, but he continued glaring at the old woman.

Kid, I'm going next door with Mrs. Feinstein for some coffee. She's promised to tell me all about you. You've got forty-five minutes, then we're outta here. Mr. Kratz stepped out the door and pulled it shut with a jerk. For years his mother had complained to the landlord about the warped door, but it never got fixed.

Through the thin walls, he heard Mrs. Feinstein's high-pitched voice. She was a sinner. She had a child with no father...

He lifted his right hand toward the voice, made a fist and raised his middle finger. Jamy, I will not have that filth in my house. Again, his conscience, in the voice of his mother, pulled at him.

* * *

The few possessions he and his mother had still hung in closets, lay folded in drawers, glittered in her small jewelry box. His precious sketchbooks, early works of a hopeful artist, lay under his bed.

He crept through the rooms afraid that with every step Mr. Kratz would take away even the few minutes given. Looking at the tiny Christmas tree bought for his mother days before her death, a sob stuck in his throat. He slipped into her room.

Touching the cold sheets, thinking of her, he slammed his fists into the stark whiteness where she had lain. The bed reverberated from the strength in his arms, well muscled from lifting his delicate mother during the months when her illness left her too weak to help herself. His slightly jutting chin quivered and his throat tightened.

Her soft lilting French echoed in his mind. Jamy, you're the son every mother prays for. I don't want to leave you. I'm sorry not to be able to see you grow to manhood, but know I will always be with you, in your heart. Je t'aime, Jamy. I love you. I hope you'll always remember that.

A single strand of her coppery hair lay on the pillow. He pulled the pillow to his chest, drew in the delicate rose scent of her, wished it were her, and whispered, Oui, Maman. Je t'aimerai toujours, aussi. (Yes, Maman. I will always love you, too.) He stood by the bed in a trance-like state, reliving her death. Maman had closed her eyes, her hand tightening on his for an instant. There was silence as he watched her draw her last breath.

Still reliving the moment, Jamy cried again to her spirit, Maman! Maman, je veux connaître plus de mon père. His sobs wrenched themselves from deep in his soul; his body shook. How do I find Father?

* * *

I'm not leaving our things for that jerk landlord or that creep, Mrs. Feinstein. He moved to his mother's dresser and grabbed her jewelry box. Emptying the contents onto the bed, he fingered pieces of his mother's jewelry still lightly scented with her favorite perfume. A man's wide gold ring, the name MacGregor, his father's name, was engraved on the inside. It intrigued him as it had the day he found it. Shaking the box one last time, he saw a paper stuck in the drawer opening. He removed it. A letter, yellow with age; from his father. The words talked of being happy about Jamy's birth. He did want me. My father was happy about me. Examining the envelope, he noticed no return address and placed the letter back into the envelope. He piled it with the jewelry.

His mother's clothes hanging limp on wire hangers in her closet only made her death more real. Sensible cotton skirts and soft blouses. Maman, your clothes. I can't take them. I wish I could, Maman. He reached out and grasped her favorite green dress. A simple dress cut in classic form-fitting lines. The dress she said made her beautiful. The dress didn't make you beautiful, Maman. You made the dress beautiful. Jamy choked a deep sigh, turned from the clothing and slowly released his grip.

He opened his mother's bureau and fingered her delicate slips and scarves. Lifting an emerald green filmy length of material that matched the dress he had just held, he wadded it and tossed it onto his pile.

Moving to his room, he grabbed his sketchbooks from under his bed and tossed them on top of it. His closet didn't hold many clothes that fit, but he grabbed some shirts and extra jeans and threw them on the bed, too. The box on the floor in the corner tugged at his heart, but his anger grew again. Those were things Paul had given him. You didn't marry Maman or give me your name. You didn't have to go to Vietnam. You volunteered. Maman didn't want you to. You said if we needed you to call your office and you would come back. I did. I told your office Maman was dying. I begged them to let you come back. You didn't call her. You didn't come back. You didn't want her if she was sick, did you? You didn't love us anymore, DID YOU? He slammed the closet shut against Paul. The noise jolted him. He listened, but Mrs. Feinstein's high pitch oratory continued.

The money. The last of the money from social services. I forgot about the money. He pulled the cap from the metal bedpost and tugging at the string, pulled up a small leather purse and jammed it into his jeans' pocket.

Jamy packed what little he gathered into an old piece of luggage he found in the entry closet.

I can't go with Kratz; he'll stick me in a foster home. I'll find father. I'll find him somehow. He'll want me. You said he would, Maman. You said. The clock struck three. Only five hours ago, he looked on his mother for the last time. Five hours. Now, her bed was cold. The little Christmas tree's lights stayed dark. The tinsel no longer glittered. And, Mr. Kratz was saying 'goodbye' to Mrs. Feinstein.

Jerking the window to the fire escape open, Jamy stepped out to the grate landing. Leaning against the sill for a long moment, the memories lingered - hot nights when he and his mother sat in this very spot vying for cool breezes. Maman's hugs. Kisses. A soft hand holding his. Walks in the park and chocolate ice cream cones. Learning the waltz from her. Even just a few days ago, she sang him a French lullaby as he slept on the floor next to her bed. Oh, Maman... Tears welled and threatened to break open the dam again. A jacket sleeve brushed them away. Putting a strap on the small piece of luggage, he threw it over his shoulder.

The apartment door shuddered as Mr. Kratz kicked at it trying to dislodge the warped door. Jamy jumped onto the fire escape ladder and rode the squeaking steel to the ground. Slipping into a side alley, he started walking, head down, shoulders hunched, hands buried deep in his pockets against the cold wet snow.

BACK TO TOC

CHAPTER 2

It's so cold. I don't remember Christmas ever being this cold and horrible. I want to go home. Jamy looked back at his footprints being obliterated by the snow. Snow clung to him, soaking him to the bone. There was nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there. He shuffled along the icy street. My father never wrote back, but Maman said I should go to him. I have the letter and the ring.

He made his way to the Tamm Street bus depot. A long walk into a bad part of town brought him to the closest depot.

Monsieur, may I have a ticket to Juxton, Missouri? Juxton, where he addressed all his letters ever since he could write. The place of his dreams where his father lived.

The unshaven, rumpled ticket agent answered, Juxton, I don't know of a Juxton, let me look. Gone only a moment, he came back and announced, Sorry, son, there isn't a Juxton, Missouri.

No Juxton? Jamy looked at him dumbfounded. I know it's Juxton. Maman even said the city was Juxton when I asked her for the address for my last letter. His quizzing of the agent brought attention to himself. Others in line gave him curious looks. Still afraid of Mr. Kratz appearing from nowhere, he moved over to a bench slightly hidden by a large column. He pushed the dirty newspapers to the floor and set down his old piece of luggage. At least here he was a little warmer.

From the bench he could just see out the window. He sat for a long time watching people boarding the different buses. I wonder if I am saying Juxton correctly. Maybe my pronunciation is wrong. I thought the bus would just take me there and I would see my father and... I wish I was getting on that bus right now. Jamy pinched his eyes shut against the tears stinging at them. Exhausted, he leaned his head against the grimy column and slept.

* * *

The ticket agent shook him. Hey, kid, you can't stay here. This place closes in fifteen minutes. You have to get out now. I gotta have everybody outta here by ten o'clock.

Jamy looked around, confused from having slept so soundly. He got up, stretched, glad to see his suitcase still there. Not wanting to take it out on the streets, he asked, Monsieur, how much are lockers?

Twenty-five cents a day, kid. Payable up front. How long ya want it?

If I take it a week, that's a dollar seventy-five. He pulled the small leather money pouch from his pocket and paid the agent. Taking the key, he stepped away. I can't risk getting robbed. I'd better put the money in the locker, too. He shoved the pouch and remaining money in the suitcase, then stashed his stuff in the locker, keeping only enough money with him for a few meals. Putting the locker key on a silver chain he wore around his neck, he paused, and touched the medal of the guardian angels.

Picking up the phone book hanging from the cable by the pay phone, he flipped through the pages. MacGregor. I know father lives far away in Juxton. Not in St. Louis. Maman told me. Juxton. Justone. Jamy played with the pronunciation. He flipped to another page. Linders. No Paul Linders. It doesn't matter. He left us when we needed him. Chaumbers. Chatelaine Chaumbers. Her name jumped out from the page. He half expected not to see it. I guess the phone company doesn't know you are gone to God, Maman. He dropped the book letting it swing on the heavy cable and stepped outside.

The pavement remained slippery. The dampness in the air chilled him. He paced the street, not knowing what to do. On Christmas Eve, people snuggled in their homes waiting for Christmas. Visions of his apartment etched themselves in his mind. His mother had been gone only three days yet it seemed like forever. He tried not to think of it. He needed to get warm. Turning away from the bus depot, he checked street signs to orient himself. Tamm and Oakland. Up the block he saw homeless people gathering near steaming sewer grates. Moving closer, he felt the warm steam.

Hey, kid. Got any cash? asked a man, dressed in rags and holding a whiskey bottle.

No.

Frightened by the man with his dirt-encrusted middle finger flicking in his face, he ran down another block and stood on the corner of the dead-end alley. Tattered pieces of newspapers fluttered around. Tall brick single-family houses separated by older brick multi-family homes lined the street. The draft between the buildings caused a low moan as it passed through the metal eaves, scaring him.

The later it got, the fewer people loitered on the street. Those who had their own hidden places soon wandered off to them for the night. The only people left were the drunks staggering about, unaware of the cold, and Jamy, stomping his feet and hunching his shoulders, trying to keep warm.

The hands of the clock atop St. James inched toward midnight. It's almost Christmas. Santa Claus will be here soon. A moment's respite from his loneliness, a slight smile touched his lips. Last year you gave me the beautiful leather bound sketchbook. Would you have gotten me oil paints this year, Maman? I really wanted oil paints, and canvas.

A black limousine crept down the street. After going around the corner, it returned and made another pass. Two nicely dressed men peered at him. He envied their being in a warm car. The car backed up and pulled over close to where he stood.

Hey, kid, we're lost. Can you tell us where we are? The driver waved his hand, motioning him closer to the car.

If you have a map, I can show you what street this is and you can figure it out from there. Jamy stepped up to the car.

Pulling out a map, the driver turned on the overhead light. Hey, that's nice, kid.

He took the map and leaning toward the window, felt the warm air from the car's heater and moved a bit closer. He pointed the street out to the man, who grabbed his arm.

Hé, monsieur, let go of me! What're you doing? Jamy pushed hard against the side of the car trying to free his arm from the driver.

The passenger exited the car and rushed to the driver's side, grabbing Jamy by his free arm and belt. Once his partner secured Jamy, the driver released his arm. The passenger pushed Jamy hard up against the car.

I haven't done anything. Let me go. Jamy struck at the man's face with his fist, but only landed a punch to his soft woolen coat. Another flying fist landed near the man's jaw, but barely touched skin. Mr. Kratz. Maybe he sent them. Maybe they're going to take me to the foster place. I haven't done anything. I'm going to live with my father. I'm going to my father. Let me go. I was just standing here. Please, I'm going to live with my father. Don't take me.

The driver and passenger pulled and pushed Jamy over to the alley as Jamy fought, kicking and twisting his body, trying to pull away.

Laisse-moi aller! Let me go! Let me go!

They dragged him deeper into the alley. The air stagnated. He couldn't feel the draft between the buildings anymore. A dim street light sent shadows against the blackened buildings. His feet slipped and tripped on debris littering the pavement.

Stop yelling, kid. No one will hear you and even if they do, they won't help you. Save your breath.

Jamy lunged forward, and catching the men slightly off balance, nearly broke free. The men held on and threw him hard against a wall, knocking the wind from him. One man hit him across the face with such force it knocked him to the ground.

This ought to be fun, he said to his partner, the kid just keeps fighting. Let's show him some real good stuff.

Jamy lay on the ground, nose bleeding, lip split, sucking in the damp night air. His head hurt from hitting the wall, clouding his thoughts. Then he felt hands tugging at his clothes. They pulled open his jacket, tore at his shirt, ripping the buttons from it, started feeling his chest and pulled at his belt and zipper. Non, s'il vous plaît, non! He pushed hands away only to feel another assault from another pair of hands.

Their hands investigated his body. They grabbed his manhood, rubbing him and then squeezed hard. Non, monsieur, please don't touch me, it hurts. Don't touch me! Don't! He struggled.

The men laughed. No, it doesn't hurt; you're gonna like this before we're through.

He fought to push their hands away. Away from his manhood. Away from his belly. Away from his chest. He couldn't keep up with the rough groping hands hurting him.

A loud scream tore from the depths of his soul. Non, s'il vous plaît Dieu, no, please don't.

Again, the man hit him hard, numbing him. He lay in the dirt of the street, unable to fight, only feeling their hands. He started to retch, but the men only laughed.

Poor boy, first time for everything.

As he choked on the vomit in his throat, the men turned him over. Better finish him, then let's split.

Jamy lay on his belly when they put an arm around his waist and pulled his rear up. What he felt next sent waves of shock through his body. Someone penetrated him and moved rhythmically against him. Dieu...auughhhh! He started to get sick again, struggling against what he felt, against the pain.

The man groaned then released him to his partner.

Don't worry kid; I need some fun, too. He felt the other man inside him, hurting him.

His face scraped against the concrete as the man worked his body against him. The taste of blood filled his mouth.

* * *

They finished with him and pulling his clothes partly onto him, dragged him over nearer the wall. You were a good time, kid; we'll look you up again. Merry Christmas.

Jamy lay on the cold pavement, not feeling anything but waves of nausea. Hurting bad where they entered him, he vomited again. His head spun wildly from the blow against the concrete. Pulling his knees to his chest, he hid his face from the imagined gaze of his father.

Papa, Papa, they hurt me. How can I come to you now? You will not want me.

The bells from the old church rang through the littered streets. Midnight. Christmas.

BACK TO TOC

CHAPTER 3

Christmas day. Bells rang out.

Passers-by called holiday greetings as people filtered into the street again. Vermin drank from puddles of melting snow in the alley where Jamy lay.

A rubbery thing nudged at his face. He didn't move. The thing kicked him, a not too hard kick, more of a foot shove. Moving deliberately, he opened his swollen eyes. A boy about his age, with huge jet black eyes set in a thin face, stood over him. The boy tossed back the long straight black hair that hung in his eyes, and stepped closer.

Hey, thought you was dead, the boy said. You hurt, kid?

Jamy looked at him while trying to focus, then answered, Yes.

Why your clothes all ripped up? What happened?

I gave some men directions. He couldn't bear to say more.

Provoked, the boy stomped the ground, raging. You dumb fuck, don't you know you don't give nobody directions around here!

The boy shuffled around him. You got family I can call?

Jamy covered his face so the other boy wouldn't see his tears.

Shit, I'll take you someplace and get you fixed up. You look like you could use a friend. Maybe I can be your friend and you can be mine. What's your name?

Jamy. His soft J slipped making his name sound like Shamy.

Huh?

J. A. M. Y.

"Jamy? A sissy name like that'll get you beat up around here. Ain't ya got a better name?

My middle name is Chance, is that okay?

Sure, Chance. That's a good one. My name's Nick. Nick Bucharelli.

Nick. Again, Jamy's deliberate pronunciation misconstrued the name, and Nick came out, Neek.

No, Nick.

Nick.

Where ya from? Ya talk kinda different like you're a foreigner or something.

I was born in St. Louis, I don't talk funny. Having spoken French so constantly throughout the last year while reading his mother's favorite stories to her, Jamy hadn't realized how pronounced his accent had become.

Musta been here a while. The blood's all dried up and stuck on your face. Come on.

Nick helped Jamy stand, leaned him against a wall, then pulled the remnants of his clothes around him. Pulling one of Jamy's arms over his shoulders and holding his wrist, Nick put his free arm around Jamy's waist and guided him a few blocks before turning into a doorway. In here, come on.

Où sommes-nous?

What'd you say?

Where are we?

An old whore lives here. I keep her place clean, make sure she eats when she's on her drugs. Maybe she'll let you stay here, too. If she brings any johns home you have to keep quiet, or she'll kick ya out, it don't matter what time of night it is. You have to do whatever she says and can't talk back. It's hard getting a place to live, so if she let's ya stay, don't screw it up.

Jamy entered a small room that included a kitchen. A rusted metal-framed bed seemed to balance against one wall; a door led to another room. White stuffing oozed out of holes in the sagging couch. The plaster peeled in chunks from the wall. Something scurried along the floor. But, they owned a color TV.

A woman stepped from the side room. Older looking than his mother had been, her dress plunged low barely covering her breasts, the hem near her butt. He lowered his gaze, embarrassed. He had seen pictures of women like this in a magazine once. The scolding voice of his mother penetrated his brain. Jamy, do not look at such women. They are mauvais. Bad. Good boys must not look.

A cigarette hung from her heavily-lipsticked mouth. Flicking her fingers through her out-modish, teased hairstyle, her black eye-linered eyes focused on his crotch, sending a chill through his bruised body.

What's this? She waved a hand at Nick.

He's gonna be my friend, Maddy. This here's Chance. He gave some men directions last night. He's hurt. Can you help him?

She pushed the hair out of Nick's eyes then turned her attention to Jamy. You gave the men directions, then they done a job on you, right?

Nick answered for him. Yeah, there were two of them who done him. He's hurt bad, I think.

Strip down. Let me check you over, Maddy said.

Jamy pulled away from Nick and moved closer to the warped entry door. Why did you bring me here?

Nick stepped next to him and touched his arm. I'm your friend, I won't let anyone hurt you. She can help you. She knows what to do. Let her help you.

What am I going to do? I don't have anywhere to go. Nick acts nice to me, but I don't like Maddy. Maybe he's right. I can't go to the police, they'll give me to Mr. Kratz. I can't do that. I can't stay here. No. No, he panted. The room spun savagely. I... He fell at Nick's feet as blackness enveloped him.

* * *

Shorter and more slight in build than Jamy, Nick struggled to pull him onto the small bed. Once there, he cleaned his cuts and washed him. Maddy returned and roughly examined Jamy. He's all right, it's more shock than anything. So you want him for a friend, huh?

Yeah. Can he stay here with us?

Oh, Nicki, we can barely take care of ourselves, pausing, then, if that's what you want, but he has to do what I say, no matter what, and you keep your mouth shut if you don't like what I tell him to do. He's gotta learn about living here. Maddy put a hand on Nick's shoulder. I gotta go to work.

But it's Christmas, Mom.

Nicki, I know you don't like what happens here, but this is the only way we can have a place to live.

Yeah, sure, Maddy, Nick said, sarcastically.

Maddy gently brushed the greasy black hair from Nick's eyes, then left the apartment.

Standing outside the door, Maddy complained, I wish that kid wouldn't call me by my name. I'm his mother. She readjusted her short skirt, pulled her blouse lower to show her breasts to better advantage, and teased her inky hair with her fingertips. Lighting up a fresh cigarette, she kicked a bottle in her path with the heal of her platform shoes, and hit the street.

Jamy woke later to a room lit with a small night light, much to his relief. His mother's crying in the dark of night still haunted him. He lay in the small bed in the main room. Feeling an arm slung over him, he carefully turned and saw, Nick, lying next to him. In his sleep, Nick's arm tightened over Jamy as though to protect him. Jamy didn't move, but lay quietly studying the face of the boy who had offered him friendship.

BACK TO TOC

CHAPTER 4

Paul Linders, just returned from overseas duty in Vietnam with the narcotics special team, set out early Christmas morning with gifts for Chatelaine and Jamy. He hadn't called, wanting to catch them unaware. His own excitement sent him driving too fast and ignoring traffic lights as he envisioned their surprise at him standing before them. Then, in a few days, Chatelaine would be his wife, and Jamy would take his name. Mr. and Mrs. Paul Linders and their son, Jamy. They would be his, finally. No more waiting. Eight long years he had waited, but no more. Not one day more.

Knocking lightly at first, no one answered. His knock intensified. He tried the door; it opened easily. Chatelaine must have finally gotten the landlord to fix this. How many times I said I would do it, but no, it was the principle of the thing. I guess she finally won. Stepping inside, the quiet caught him. At so early an hour, he felt sure they would be home. Glancing around, he saw bureau drawers open in Jamy's room. No evidence of people. No breakfast. No dishes stacked. No gifts under the little tree covered with tinsel. He heard a sound behind him. Turning, he saw an older lady he remembered vaguely.

Are you looking for the kid? she asked, coming into the room.

Paul looked down from his six foot six inch frame to the wrinkled figure before him. He stepped closer. Her squinty eyes opened wide.

You! You've been gone a long time, but I remember you.

Where are Chatelaine and Jamy?

She died without confessing to a priest. A sinner damned to hell.

He reeled as though hit with a fist in the belly. Died?

Died with her sin. God sent her a cancer to make her repent, but she never did.

Chatelaine dying of cancer. No! No, God wouldn't hurt my sweet Chatelaine. He stared a moment, then wanted nothing more than to strangle the woman and squelch her words, but she hadn't mentioned Jamy. Her son. Jamy. Where is he? Paul said forcefully, falling back on his training as an agent to get information.

"He was there yesterday. A social worker went to the funeral with him. They came here to get his clothes. He's a bad boy. Always saying 'fuck you' and 'bitch' when I told him his mother was a sinner. He's gone. Out