Kids Under the Latch Key

By Cherie White

During the summer of 1987, then sixteen-year-old Grace Bradshaw, her younger brother Max, and neighborhood friends befriend Randy Spence, a twenty-one-year-old mentally disabled man with the IQ of a child. Mocked by many in the corrupt small town, Randy is taken under wing and protected by his younger friends while learning hard lessons about the way most people treat those who are different. Along the way, Grace, her brother and younger neighborhood friends also learn shocking lessons about good and evil.”

A first-person narrative told by a now middle-aged and widowed Grace Bradshaw McGuire to her adult children, “Kids Under the Latch Key” is a heart-touching story of the summer which prompted her to question God and challenged her initial belief that all humans are inherently good.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781483440873

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WHITE

Copyright © 2019 Cherie White.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-4104-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-4087-3 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 08/05/2019

I dedicate this book to my mother, who taught me to love and accept everyone, regardless of their differences and to my grandmothers, who passed to me their wisdom of how people and the world worked. I also dedicate this to those, who taught me more about the level of evil, to which human beings are capable of stooping, more than any teacher in a classroom ever could.

Some seek to destroy what they cannot understand

~ Unknown ~

Links

www.cheriewhite.blog

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www.lulu.com/spotlight/Cherie72

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1

Memory Lane

As I drove my adult children, three college-age and the eldest, married with a child of his own, through the neighborhood, in which I had grown up, I couldn’t help but shake my head while looking at our surroundings. The small town of Sugar Village, Tennessee, was nothing like it had been thirty plus years ago. For the last decade, drugs, gangs, murders, drive-by shootings, and car-jackings had overrun the community. My heart sank as I drove ever so slowly down Main Street, looking closely at the old strip to see that the once-booming businesses were now closed and boarded up. I also noticed that the sides of the late-nineteenth-century erected buildings were splashed with graffiti and most of the once-kept alleys, ditches, yards and street sides were littered with blight. I then turned onto Madison and began a lurch, taking in the disappointing scenery. Many of the houses in the neighborhood were now abandoned and in disrepair, with shutters hanging by one corner and swinging back and forth in the wind. Windows were either broken or cracked and old paint either peeling or faded. Some houses had even burned, with nothing left but a charred frame, remnants of outer walls and foundation. The yards were severely overgrown, grass looking like stalks in a jungle. Bushes and shrubbery were unkept, and ivy crawled up the sides of some of the houses. Concrete driveways were also overgrown, riddled with cracks through which tufts of weeds grew. A pair of old sneakers hung from an overhead powerline by its shoelaces, slightly swinging back and forth in the mid-autumn breeze.

I was deeply saddened to see scattered broken beer and whiskey bottles, Styrofoam soda cups and empty go-boxes from fast food restaurants, used latex gloves, condoms, and used syringes, all in plain view. It seemed as if the residents had long stopped taking pride in the town. The neighbors I had grown up with were all gone, and the old neighborhood had become a ghost town. Not a soul was outside, not a kid, car, but only a stray dog crossing the road ahead. As I continued to take in my dismal surroundings, I could feel the now lifelessness of a town I had once loved. Sugar Village looked more like a ghetto than a once-thriving city. Everyone had, for some reason, stopped caring. Sugar Village was now only a shell of its former glory.

In no way did it resemble the town I remembered. Thirty years before, Sugar Village was once a lovely and lively town, with beautiful houses and yards maintained neatly, with colorful azalea, hydrangea and rose bushes. Neighbors also grew beds of irises, peonies, tulips, and buttercups. Everyone kept their lawns mowed and in perfect order. Every day, you would see residents outside, tending to their flowers, watering their plants, sitting on their porches with their pets and a good book, or walking down the streets for exercise. Elderly couples would walk hand in hand down Madison in the spring, summer, and fall. Boisterous kids would be seen riding their bikes, skating or playing ball in the street or their yards playing on their swing sets and gym sets. People would also be seen firing up their grills and cooking out on warm, sunny days. Cars would cruise down the streets with Motley Crue, Dokken, Salt N Pepa, Run DMC, or Beastie Boys blaring from their stereo speakers. In this beautiful little town, crime was next to nonexistent! It was even safe to walk the streets at night! In those days, Sugar Village was a gorgeous, peaceful little town bursting with life!

A tear streamed down my face as I saw the wretched wasteland that Sugar Village had become and began to mourn the town that I had once known.

"A lot has changed since I lived here. This neighborhood isn’t what it used to be thirty-five years ago. Back then, this place was beautiful! Absolutely beautiful! Gangs? Drugs? Crime? Back then, there were no such things around here." I told my children as I slowed the Cadillac Escalade SUV to get a better look at our surroundings. My children, two sons, and two daughters, curiously craned their necks to study the bedraggled world outside our truck.

As I slowed the car to a lurch and pulled into the driveway to the old, huge, two-story house in which I had once grown up, my eyes welled with tears. I shut off the engine, then took a Kleenex from the middle console and dabbed my eyes with it. We sat in the car for a moment, looking at my old home. The house was disheveled, and a few of the shutters once painted black, were now faded to grey and barely hanging. The white paint on the trim, around the doors and windows, was severely weathered and chipping to reveal old, rotten wood underneath. The front yard was overgrown and littered with trash.

Max and I grew up in this house. Lord, how it has gone down since we left! I told my children.

It’s a shame how people have neglected this place. My son, Kevin, who sat in the passenger seat, remarked. I could not help but to agree with him.

You know, I’ve often heard that once a house becomes empty, it falls into disarray and disrepair quickly. I can’t explain it. It’s almost as if it becomes lonely or misses the family that left. I know it sounds strange. My daughter Skye mentioned.

I’ve heard that too, I replied.

Finally, we all got out of the truck and slowly walked across the yard to the house. We each peered into different windows, and the glass was so dirty with a brown film that we could barely see inside. When the kids and I came to the side door just under the old carport, we noticed that it was ajar. So, I pushed it open and called out.

Hello! I called as I stepped inside the house, followed by my brood.

I listened and waited but heard not a peep.

Hellooooo!!! I repeated louder the second time as we all began to look around.

The wind which whistled through a hole in the window pane in one of the living room windows was the only sound we heard. Slowly, the four of us crept from room to room, exploring until we came to what was once mine and Max’s old bedroom, which was across the vast hall from the staircase.

I stopped in the middle of mine and my brother’s old bedroom and looked around, studying the faded blue walls, the floor, windows, ceiling, and light fixture. I then looked at my children before walking up to one of the walls and placing a hand on it.

If only these walls could talk! I said wistfully, After all these years, the walls still look the same; only they’re faded and worn. My mother painted these walls for Max when she decided that we should have separate rooms and moved me upstairs.

I turned and focused on the door to the old closet and was instantly overwhelmed with excitement. I rushed to it and opened the door before the smell of cedar immediately took me back. I walked into the closet, reached up to the shelf over the clothes-rack, and began feeling around. I knew that what I had come for had to be there somewhere unless one of the people who had moved in after we left had accidentally discovered it. I hoped to goodness that had not been the case as I continued to feel around.

I remember Max and I left something here. I forgot where we put it for all these years. But just the other day, it hit me. There’s a cubby hole in this closet, and I need to find something we left. I think it’s above the shelf. I told my kids.

I stood as high as I possibly could on my tip-toes and reached over the shelf once more, then paused suddenly when I felt a loose board and pushed it into the back wall. I continued to push around the old back wall with my hand until I felt and heard another board fall backward. Suddenly, an ugly grey spider crawled out of the hole and scurried across the shelf, startling me so that I yelped like a scared puppy and jumped back. When the eight-legged creature disappeared into a knothole in the side wall, I resumed my frantic search, feeling around the now-discovered cubby hole until I finally felt something.

Oh, my God! I feel something! I think this is it! I cried in excited anticipation.

There sat an old stool in the opposite corner of the bedroom. My oldest daughter, Leilani, grabbed it and brought it to me. I took the seat, sat in on the floor in front of me, and stepped onto it. My eldest son, Kevin, handed me a flashlight before helping to steady me to prevent me from falling.

The house was falling apart and had an intense, musty order. We could hear the old structure creak and pop around us as the outside breeze blew against it. The paint on the walls was not only faded but chipped in a few areas. Cobwebs filled every corner. I did not know what I was feeling. It felt like just another piece of wood. I continued to look and feel around until I felt something cold and hard. I then felt something plastic.

Feeling a huge rush of excitement, perhaps nostalgia, I shone the flashlight on what looked to be plastic packages covered with a thick blanket of brownish-grey dust. I then pulled the mysterious objects from the cubby hole and out of the closet before stepping down from the stool with the aid of Kevin.

Oh my gosh! It’s still here! After all these years, it’s still here, exactly where I left it! I gushed, hardly able to believe the objects had sat there untouched for so long.

What are you talking about, Mom? Leilani asked me.

This! I answered, showing everyone the items which I held in my hands.

I excitedly wiped away the thick cover of dust and moisture from the objects, revealing two sealed Ziploc bags. When I opened them, I pulled out a little toy red caboose from one baggy and beautiful ceramic picture frame, from the other. Minus the dust, an ugly orange-brown residue had discolored the bags, having slowly formed over the years. I slowly turned the caboose and picture frame every which way in my hands, having a good look at them as my children curiously gathered around behind me and looked over my shoulder to watch. I turned the frame face up, and sure enough, there was a picture inside. It felt as if we had opened a time capsule.

The photo was that of a sandy-haired young man holding a huge, golden trophy, surrounded by three middle-school-aged boys and one teenage girl. I covered my mouth as we all gazed at the picture. Leilani gasped as her eyes grew wide as she beheld the frozen fragment of time.

Mom! Is that you??? And Uncle Max??? She gasped.

And who’s the dude? My youngest son Trevor asked.

Yeah, Mom. Who’s the young man? My youngest daughter Skye, repeated.

I paused and continued to gaze at the old photo before turning the frame over, removing the back of it and took out the photo, along with a folded piece of paper. I handed the snapshot and frame to Kevin, then unfolded the document to find drawings, beautiful drawings which looked so professional and realistic! Because everything had been sealed, it still looked brand new, having been spared from deterioration and discoloration of age.

As I stared at the artwork, rubbing one hand across the surface of the paper and sitting down on the stool, my throat suddenly tightened, and my eyes filled with clear, hot liquid. Suddenly, an uncontrollable urge to cry overtook me, and I just wailed, putting my face in one hand as my body writhed with each sob. The looks of curiosity on my adult children’s faces turned to those of concern and fear.

Mom! What’s wrong? They all asked, horrified as two of them huddled on each side of me and snaked an arm around me.

Here, Mom! Get up so I can pull the stool next to the window! You need some fresh air. Trevor urged. I got up, and he pulled the stool over to the window while Leilani threw it open and let the autumn breeze blow in through the old screen and fill the stuffy old bedroom.

I only stood there, as tears streamed down my cheeks before Skye wiped them away with one thumb. I then hugged the photo, toy caboose, and artwork against my chest before lowering my head to begin sobbing once more.

My God, Mom! What is going on? Skye asked as she knelt in front of me, getting level with me and placing a loving hand on my knee. My other three children knelt around me, putting their arms around my torso.

I guess I never told you, did I? I sniffled.

About what, Mom? Kevin asked.

The story behind these items Max and I hid in the closet thirty-two years ago. I clarified. And I sat on the little stool next to the open window, heirlooms in hand, and drifted back in time.

2

Flashback

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the summer of 1987, the summer I turned sixteen. I was the oldest of our little band of neighborhood rascals. Max was thirteen, Savannah Cantrell was fifteen, and her younger brothers, Jackson and Zachary Cantrell, who were identical twins, were twelve. Brothers Noah and Rocky McCullough were fifteen and eleven. I watched over these kids as if they were my own. I guess you could say that I was sort of like a babysitter to them. Although I was sixteen, I felt as if I needed to stay with them to keep them all safe and from getting into any mischief.

The summer of 1987 was the summer, during which a very tragic event occurred that turned this entire town upside down. It was the summer that would transform me as a person. That summer, I learned the hard way that some injustices were never to be made right and that people were capable of the most unimaginable evils. That summer would forever change me, forcing me to face realities I never knew existed.

Sugar Village was about forty miles from Memphis and so small it only had two stoplights, a small post office, a bank, and small grocery store, all of which were located on the business strip along Main Street. Back then, the town was bursting with life. People walked, and children ran and laughed along the Main Street Strip. Shoppers came in and out of Agnew’s Grocers, a rural, small-town grocery store and the only one in town. Beside the old barbershop, elderly men sat at small tables, playing card games, checkers or chess while talking about the weather.

At the gas station across the street from the barbershop and grocery store, cars pulled in to get serviced and men in greased up, blue jumpsuits would jump into action, filling up the customer’s gas tanks and cleaning their front windshields. The only restaurant in town was Smokey’s Café, which was also located along the strip and always filled with hungry customers. Our neighborhood was also bursting with life, with old couples walking hand in hand, outside for a breath of fresh air and lots of kids running, riding bicycles, skating, skateboarding, and riding go-carts, mini-bikes, and three-wheelers.

We lived with our maternal grandmother and divorced mother in a big, two-story house on Madison Avenue. Myself, my brother, and our neighborhood friends lived on the same street. Savannah and the twins lived next door to the left of our house, and Noah and Rocky lived next door in the house to the right. On the very end of the street, on the corner of Madison and Main, lived Randy Spence, a twenty-year-old, mentally disabled kid, who was known to the locals by the cruel moniker, Randy the Retard. He lived with his paternal grandmother, Mrs. Ella Spence, a widow who often made beautiful quilts to give away to the less fortunate.

I spent those long, seemingly endless summer days with these kids. We had been close, like brothers and sisters. We were always together, running all over the neighborhood while our parents were at work. We had lots of fun climbing trees, riding our bikes, skating, skateboarding or taking turns riding mine and Max’s go-cart or three-wheeler. We would also play kickball and dodgeball in the middle of the street, stopping long enough to let an occasional car pass before resuming our game. There was always plenty to do, and the world seemed fresh, shiny, and new!

Life was filled with magic and wonder, and the evils of the world had not yet tainted us. Back then, the world around us seemed brighter and more colorful, before we grew up and everything slowly faded to grey. We knew who we were, what we wanted out of life, and where we were going. It was a time when the world was less uncertain and less complicated. How I wish those days never ended!

Randy was a meek and gentle soul who had the innocence of a small child. Though most everyone hated him because he was different, my friends and I saw past his differences from others his age, his oddities, his quirks; and saw the genuineness and authenticity of his personality, the snow-white purity of his heart and the blamelessness of his character. One of the things about him which baffled those who did not understand him was that Randy did not look mentally disabled. To look upon him, one would think he was just like everyone else. Randy was a rather handsome guy. Anytime he was dressed for church or some other special event; he could look rather dapper. When clothed to diddy-bop around the neighborhood with us, Randy looked pretty hip. However, when choosing an outfit to wear for work, he always dressed poorly to keep from ruining his best clothes.

In late May of 1987, on the morning after the last day of school, the neighborhood kids and I met at our usual meeting place, which was the corner of Madison and Belmont, under the huge oak tree, just across the street from where Max and I lived.

Max and I walked across the street to meet Savannah, Noah, and Rocky, who were all waiting on the corner of Madison and Belmont. Mr. Arliss Cantrell, Savannah’s and the twins’ grandfather and their father, Mr. Harlan Cantrell were under the hood of Mr. Arliss’ old 1967 Chevy pickup, tinkering with the motor as The Bellamy Brothers loudly crooned the song, Kids of The Baby Boom over the truck’s speakers and seemed to echo throughout the neighborhood.

Hey, Grace! Hey, Max! The twins, Jack and Zach Cantrell called as they both burst from their front door and sprinted across their front yard, toward the street corner.

Stop slamming that door! Their father, Mr. Harlan, called out, As soon as I fix Grandpa’s truck, I gotta get to work! So you stay close! ‘Ya hear now?

Yes, sir. The twins called without looking back.

And stay away from the tracks! Mr. Harlan added.

As we all gathered under the huge oak tree, Max handed all the boys Charms blow pops for a quarter each, then took the money and shoved it in his pocket. Because our dad worked at the nearby candy factory and would give us one-hundred-piece bags of candy, my brother was known as the neighborhood candy vendor, selling candy to the neighborhood kids, on the school bus, and at school. Blow pops were a quarter each, tootsie rolls a dime and dum-dums a nickel.

Ugh! How can anyone listen to that! Noah said as he pointed toward Mr. Arliss and Mr. Harlan, All they sing about is losing their chicks and getting wasted! Crying in their beer! Give me some Beastie Boys or some LL Cool J!

Run DMC and Whodini! Now those boys know how to jam! Rocky added.

Are you kidding? Those guys are so yesterday! They’re outta here! Beastie Boys and LL are what’s hot now! Noah objected.

I like Beastie Boys, but I prefer Motley Crue, Dokken, Kiss or Bon Jovi, I told them.

"Grace listens to that borderline devil music," Max said.

It’s not ‘devil music. It’s called rock music. I corrected him.

Yeah, it is! Do you know what Kiss stands for? ‘Knights in Satan Service.’ Max insisted.

No, it doesn’t! Some rock and roll-hating old-timer probably come up with that crap back years ago, and it isn’t true! You’re always going to have those grown-ups whose minds are still stuck in the fifties and make wild claims against rock music! I explained, "I read in ‘Hit Parade’ magazine that these groups were asked about that very thing during an interview and they said they didn’t want anything to do with the devil and that Satan