The Feral Girls

By Michael Kaye

In the summer of 1975, in the neighborhood–friendly town of Newmans River—three young children are senselessly murdered.

The Feral Girls chronicles the haunting tale of an American tragedy. The story relentlessly unfolds with exacting details and stunning surprises. While the horrifying impact on all those involved cannot be measured or forgotten, ultimately the disturbing events lead to an unexpected conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532066511

Michael Kaye

Michael Kaye was born and educated in England where his long literary career began. He is the author of nine novels, two stage plays, several volumes of poetry and numerous children's books. He resides in northern New York State and is currently working on his latest novel.

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Copyright © 2019 Michael Kaye.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-6650-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-6651-1 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 02/14/2019

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Part One   The Victims

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part Two   The Bodies

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Part Three   The Trial

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty- Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Part Four   The Present

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

This book is for my Mother

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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I owe my thanks and gratitude to the Honorable Judge Kate Hogan, former District Attorney for Warren County, NY. Judge Hogan was generous with her time, advice and professional guidance in explaining some of the finer points of the role of a prosecutor. Hopefully, I presented a realistic portrait. Any liberties I have taken with procedural details are mine, not hers.

I am grateful to Kim Kaye and Chris Dent for painstakingly reconnoitering and photographing the front cover scene for the book. Their work enhances the book beyond measure.

To my wife, Kristine, for her imaginative work on the front and back covers, as well as her editing and technical expertise. Without her support and love, this book would not have been possible.

The ultimate aim of the human mind, in all its efforts,

is to become acquainted with Truth.

Eliza Farnham

PART ONE

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THE VICTIMS

CHAPTER ONE

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T he building was constructed in the mid-thirties as a prime example of the future of education. Bright, gleaming hallways were lit by banks of huge windows, while the landscaping gave one the impression of some vast suburban park. The whole place was light, airy and, supposedly, very conducive to learning.

Through the years it served as the local high school, before ending up in the early seventies as a rather depressing repository for grades one through six.

The gleaming halls were long gone. Light was now produced artificially, since most of the windows had been broken and bricked up following decades of vandalism and decay. Money, once plentiful in the area, now gave way to people living paycheck to paycheck, or more commonly, hand to mouth.

The school was situated on Sandbank Road, a run-down street, in the town of Newmans River. There actually was a river in the area, but time, industrial pollution and a lack of adequate investment had relegated it to the stinking ribbon of waste it had now become. Fishing and swimming had long since been banned, and yet, on long, hot summer days some of the bravest and dumbest kids still dived in to impress their friends. What else was there to do when there was nothing else left to do?

Two mills provided the main source of employment. A small hospital, another red-bricked relic of years gone by, tried desperately to care for those who’d contracted some of the insidious diseases the factories provided as an extra benefit to their employees. Three churches, a string of local stores, a small library, and the VFW center provided a certain sense of community, even in the worst of times.

To its credit, Newmans River exuded strong family values, hard work and the belief that right is right and wrong is most certainly wrong.

Most of the families living on Sandbank Road in 1976 had resided there for many years. Most knew each other, spent time in each other’s homes, and, more often than not, cared for children who were not their own. Kids, therefore, became extended family members, and all members of the family looked out for each other in equal measure.

One of the strongest feelings a child could experience, growing up on Sandbank Road, was the overwhelming sense of always being safe. In those days, nobody bothered a kid as he walked two blocks or more to the local convenience store for a gallon of milk. In fact, the opposite was true; if the child didn’t pass a dozen friendly faces to and fro, then it was either snowing, or a big game was on the fuzzy, black and white television sets.

Despite the poverty, the lack of amenities and the desperate struggles of every-day life, crime in the area generally, and on Sandbank Road in particular, was almost non-existent. Fights occasionally broke out between kids, but the spats were usually over before they really got started.

In essence, there was no malice in the air; no feeling that violence of any kind was ever just around the corner. In fact, the police responsible for the area more often than not spent their time being good neighbors rather than solving crimes.

Despite their usual poor condition, the houses on Sandbank Road rarely went up for sale. Generations after generations lived in the same houses, which were passed down through families like precious heirlooms. Mostly, properties were only sold when reaching the end of a lineage. Even then, the new occupants almost certainly had relatives already living on the road, or knew a family that did. Whatever the case, these fresh faces were quickly assimilated into the fabric of the street, and life carried on as before.

Like many other neighborhoods in the area, it was the children who gave Sandbank Road its earthy vibrancy. They were the thread, the ribbon of life, which kept the community going and most families together. Of course, there were exceptions, and, most certainly, not all the residents were saints. There were affairs, absent fathers, mothers who drank too much, and kids who were largely left to their own devices.

For most of the children of Sandbank Road their second home was the school, located at the very end of the street, just before it teed into Marshall Drive. This was their safe haven; a place they could return to day after day without thoughts of deprivation, hunger or domestic upheaval. Songs were sung in the dark, cavernous auditorium; lunch was eaten in comradeship, with much noise and laughter, and lessons were learned at the feet of caring, compassionate teachers.

There were no gangs at Richmond Elementary, although, inevitably, cliques existed. The boys stayed pretty much to themselves, joshing each other while playing hard-fought touch football at recess. The girls, for the most part, contented themselves with making sure they had at least a couple of close friends to whom they could confide almost anything.

When school let out for the day, or on the weekends, it was usually the practice for many of the kids to visit with their friends. In and out of each other’s houses, the coming and going of the children was like a perpetual eddy. Parents, grandparents, older brothers and sisters, all were used to the continuous stream of young visitors scampering through their crowded living rooms and kitchens.

In a sense, many of their kids’ friends became part of their family, too. The unwritten rule on Sandbank Road always required the kids to respect their elders; to treat them as well as they would their own parents. And the other moms and dads would never be shy about pulling rank on any kid who misbehaved or stepped way over the line.

Living on Sandbank Road, despite its harshness and depressing surroundings, offered these people something they desperately needed; it gave them solidarity with the town and with each other. And, as far as the eye could see and the heart could wish, no one living on Sandbank Road could ever envisage anything changing this idyllic way of life.

CHAPTER TWO

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T he modest house, officially known as number 11, Sandbank Road, was home to the Lockhart family. Gus, the father, worked hard hours at the mill, while his wife of eight years, Melanie, cleaned houses and offices from seven in the morning until the kids returned from school around 3.00 p.m.

Melanie was particular about always being there to greet the children when they got home. Her own parents had instilled the importance of routine in a child’s life. It had made her feel safe and wanted. Now, all these years later, she was determined to give her own kids those same experiences.

Thomas, aged seven, and Sarah, five, also loved that their mother was at the door to hug and smother them with kisses as soon as they returned. The kids usually walked home from school amid a throng of friends, other parents and grandparents. Melanie never had to worry about Thomas or Sarah’s safety. In her community, everyone else’s kid was everyone else’s kid.

The Lockhart family was typical of the households populating Sandbank Road. On weekends, when they didn’t have to work, Gus and Melanie did what they could, with their meager income, to give their children some fun times as a way of relieving the tedium of every-day living. And every-day living included the struggle feed and clothe the family; ensuring that the harsh winters didn’t freeze them all to death; affording medical care for the children, if not for themselves and always trying to earn enough to keep the sometimes leaky roof over their heads.

One of the family’s favorite pastimes usually occurred on the banks of Newmans River. While trying their best to ignore the river’s dank, oily smell and foreboding olive-brown color, they would fish, throw stones, launch paper boats and generally try hard to imagine this fetid stretch of waterway was really some sort of paradise.

Gus was the boat-builder, constructing small masterpieces out of thrown-away bits of paper, cardboard and plastic grocery bags. The kids, thrilled by his inventions, waited patiently to be given their prizes, their eyes growing ever larger by the minute. And they were never disappointed. These little ships were launched onto the water, and with a gentle push, coasted away, dodging tree stumps and garbage, until they reached the bend in the river and disappeared.

Gus always told his children the boats would end up in China. But they didn’t really care. All that mattered was that this was a magical time and daddy made it happen.

Melanie was the angler, the one who could pull wonderful, wriggling creatures, as if by sorcery, from this churning messy strip of muck. They learned from her to have patience. They learned to be quiet, to enjoy the sheer expectation that something wondrous could happen at any moment. And when it did, when one of them saw their bobber sink quickly beneath the water, their squeals of joy could be heard all the way back to Sandbank Road. To catch a fish with mom…well, what could be better than that?

The Lockhart family came to Newmans River so often the kids regarded the place as their favorite playground. Aunts and uncles brought them there. Other parents, with their kids, took them there. It was a place of fun, adventure and discovery. Certainly, it was not somewhere to be scared, worried or frightened that something bad would happen. No, this was a place to spend endless summer days without a care in the world.

Thomas, the seven-year-old, lacked the robustness of most kids his age. Small in stature, with poor eyesight, he struggled with a personality that inflicted many unseen wounds. He just looked puny, as though a hefty gust of wind would not only blow him over but probably into the next county, too.

In school, Thomas rarely stood out. According to his teachers, his social development, compared to most of the other kids, lacked the necessary and expected progression. He seldom questioned anything; obeyed anybody who told him to do anything and, most alarmingly, trusted everyone with whom he came into contact with an unflinching heart.

But whatever his deficiencies or imperfections, Thomas more than made up for them with his huge, toothy, smile, his almost obsessive love of his family and his immeasurable, refreshing innocence. These captivating traits always propelled him into the hearts of everyone he met.

His mother, Melanie, the worrier of the family, fretted most about Thomas. Naturally, his future concerned her most of all. Whereas Sarah, her five-year-old, never put a doubt in her mind with her remarkable self-confidence and impudence, Thomas gave her restless nights about his days and years to come.

With luck, he might secure a job at one of the mills. His father would probably be able to talk to people, put in a good word, and tell them what a prize his son would be. If that happened then Melanie could call it a success; would be able to call him, her beloved son, a success. If not…well…the ‘if not’ didn’t bear thinking about.

For now, she was content to nurture Thomas in a way that provided both protection and a certain amount of freedom. His trusting nature always concerned her. But, with his bossy little sister around, plus the friends up and down Sandbank Road, Melanie knew there’d always be someone looking out for Thomas.

Of course, he frightened her sometimes, by not coming straight home from school, by staying out way past his allotted play time and by retreating now and then into his own fantasy world.

Thomas told lies. Big lies. He sometimes found it difficult to tell fact from fiction. And the stories he told often seemed to have an element of truth to them. Gus and Melanie always paid attention, but just lately, dealing with pressures of their own, they grew impatient, even angry at times, with his dubious, deceptive tales.

Gus, in particular, found Thomas increasingly difficult to deal with. Outside of their family outings to Newmans River, he and the boy spent precious little time together. For Gus, Thomas was a major disappointment. After the boy was born Gus had visions of rearing a son in his own image; strong-willed, hard-working and optimistic. He imagined teaching his son everything a good father should pass down. None of that worked out. Now Gus knew it never would. The most he could do was to keep the boy out of trouble, keep him safe and to give him the best life he could under the circumstances. Nonetheless, sometimes the resentment he felt for Thomas bordered upon a numbing harshness.

You need to control your temper, Melanie plainly told her husband, after one particularly bad blow up with Thomas. He’s a kid, Gus. Just a kid. You know what he’s like. Lighten up, will you?

So, now it’s my fault?

I’m just saying…you’re the adult here. We know what he does. He tells lies. All kids do. He’s just worse than the others. Give him a break. Please.

It’ll never end, will it? Gus replied, forlornly. I mean, he’ll always be like this. He’ll always be…different.

He’s our son, Gus, Melanie answered, her tired eyes almost pleading. That’s all that matters. We have to help him…in any way we can. He deserves that much at least. And you can start by keeping your temper. People have started noticing. We don’t need any trouble, eh?

Gus turned away, resigned and feeling trapped; sorry and sad. He knew in his heart the way he treated Thomas was wrong. But the whole ‘raising the boy in his own image’ idea was quickly slipping away.

In the weeks, months and years to come, these dismal thoughts would come back to haunt him time and time again. It was a nightmare. That’s what it was. It was a nightmare.

CHAPTER THREE

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B eing six years old was the best thing little Keisha Blake could be. The first-grader’s love for life was unmistakable, even without her infectious giggle, frizzy black hair and insatiable curiosity. Keisha was everything a six-year-old should be and more.

The early seventies had brought tragedy and hardship into the Blake household. In almost the blink of an eye the family went from living well to existing just above the poverty line. Of course, Keisha knew nothing about the sudden change in fortune, even as she was dragged from one new home to another.

Cornelius Blake, her father, was on his second tour in Nam when it happened. His platoon… two squads, thirty men…was caught in an ambush shortly after leaving its base. In the ensuing firefight, half his men died, while the rest sustained some level of damage. Cornelius was one of the lucky ones…he only lost his legs.

Back home in the States, Cornelius began his long journey of rehabilitation. His wife, Lucille, remained constantly by his side with exuberant encouragement and remarkable steadfastness.

She shielded little Keisha from the horror for a while, before realizing Cornelius’s recovery would certainly be hastened by the toddler’s presence at his bedside. And so it proved to be. Keisha was the spark that relit her husband’s hope in the future.

After eight months, and with rudimentary prosthetics in place, Cornelius left the Army with an honorable discharge and a small disability pension. Now came the hard part; leaving military housing and trying to find a decent place to live to raise their daughter.

At first they stayed with his family, but limited space and privacy soon made them move on. The strain on the marriage made the adults realize this was no way to bring up a child. Even so, the most they managed were cheap apartments in seedy neighborhoods.

Lucille worked as a nursing aide. The job was a perfect fit for her personality. She was kind, but firm; gentle, but strong when necessary. Her work ethic made impressions upon people. The staff loved her. So did her patients. She made friends; friends that eventually mattered.

But money was always tight, and making ends meet challenged her and Cornelius every day. Keisha, their main concern, grew like an ever expanding streak of light. She needed things, yes, but what she needed most of all were roots. Roots that only a real, safe home could provide.

Can we swing it? Cornelius asked his wife. I’m not sure we can.

Have to, sweetie. We have to, Lucille answered, firmly. This is our…her…only chance.

The chance Lucille talked about concerned the possibility of the family renting a house of their own on Sandbank Road. It was a rare opportunity, since renting a home on this street almost never happened. But the property was run-down, the late owner’s family didn’t want to live there and they hadn’t the assets to fix it up. Renting seemed the perfect answer for both parties.

Lucille heard about the house through someone at work, a patient, who knew the old lady who’d passed away. Within a week the deal was done. Seventy-five dollars a month and they were in. The good neighbors of Sandbank Road quickly built a wheelchair ramp to the front door so Cornelius could come and go as necessary.

What people noticed most about the family was their willingness to give of themselves while still experiencing extreme hardships of their own. Soon, they fitted into the Sandbank Road community as if they’d been there all their lives.

As the first African American family on the street, the Blakes naturally stood out. But once they arrived, they were accepted into the tight knit neighborhood for what they were – hard-working, patriotic Americans, who deserved their chance at a slightly better life.

Of course, it was Keisha who most endeared people to the family. With her long, black eyelashes and permanent cheek to cheek grin, she couldn’t help being loved by all who met her. She quickly made friends at school without becoming attached to anyone in particular.

Her first-grade teacher, Ms. Fisher, told her parents at conference time that Keisha was competent in all areas except one.

And what would that be? enquired Lucille, slightly taken aback.

Oh, it’s not a huge worry at this stage, replied Ms. Fisher. Just something you should be aware of. Keisha seems easily led.

Easily led? Cornelius jumped in. What does that mean?

It just means that she’s a follower right now, not a leader. Sometimes she’s easily distracted by what the other kids are doing. As I say, it’s not a big problem, but you should be aware.

After the conference, the Blakes talked the matter over between themselves. They concluded that at Keisha’s age it was not worth worrying about. She would find her own voice in due course. In a few days, the apparent problem was completely forgotten.

The Blakes’ life was still mainly centered upon Cornelius’s ongoing recovery. He received extensive physical therapy through the local VA hospital, which took a lot of hours and great family upheaval to achieve. Lucille had to work to support them, so caring for Keisha fell partly on her husband, but mostly on friends and neighbors.

Her parents always knew where she was but they often didn’t see her for long periods of time. In other words, a lot of their child’s upbringing relied mainly on strangers, albeit strangers with good intentions.

Keisha eventually became to many of the families on Sandbank Road just another one of their kids. She hung out with them, walked to and from school with them, ate with them and sometimes stayed overnight in their homes. The routine, at first casual, soon turned into a pattern. It was a pattern Cornelius and Lucille were thankful for. They knew Keisha was in good hands while they dealt with the real problems in their lives.

Many of these kids were older than Keisha, which was both a blessing and a curse. While they tried their best to look out for her, she sometimes got lost in the shuffle of her friends’ numerous activities. Often, she was dragged along, participating in fun and games which were way beyond her years.

These kids took risks; they explored unsafe, abandoned buildings, crossed the dangerous railway tracks above the river, climbed the tallest trees they could find and ran home late at night through the darkness and the rain. But they were together; that was the point.

Keisha quickly learned to trust her older friends, but by doing so unequivocally she was always, as her teacher had remarked, a ‘follower’. It was natural for her to obey the other kids’ instructions, rarely, if ever, thinking about the consequences of what they were doing.

She didn’t have to think because most of the time she was having too much fun…the time of her life. And every day seemed to be this way. Whether it was going to school, at school or afterwards, every minute was filled with laughter, excitement, and a feeling that life was one, long playtime.

Fortunately, apart from a few minor scrapes, cuts and bruises, no one ever seemed to get hurt, despite the risks that were taken. The worst accident Keisha saw consisted of Larry Spellman tripping over his own feet. The youngster smacked his nose on the sidewalk, spilling blood while denting his dignity. The older kids took him home, waited for him to be patched up and then joined him in another adventure as soon as he’d left the house.

For some reason, the sight of Larry’s blood on the pavement fascinated Keisha. It was the first time she’d seen such a large amount in one place. The way it kept pumping from his nose made her stop and stare. When everyone else had left to take Larry home Keisha lagged behind, gawking at the large, wet pool and gently dipping in her finger to see how it felt.

At home, later that evening, she asked her mother about the blood. She wanted to know if Larry had felt any pain and if his nose would be ‘good again’.

Of course, sweetheart, Lucille told her, hugging Keisha close. That boy’ll be just fine. Another couple of days and he won’t even remember what happened.

Keisha carefully thought about that for a while. Lucille, watching, could see her child trying hard to figure something out. Something deep, something she needed to understand.

Okay, she finally answered, leaving her mother’s lap and heading for the kitchen. She’d worked it out. She understood now. Just because there was blood all over the place it didn’t mean you were hurt. It just looked bad, that’s all.

Keisha would remember that. Sometimes blood is just blood.

CHAPTER FOUR

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F ourth grade at the elementary school on Sandbank Road was a tough place to be. Those kids, at that point in their lives, weren’t really too sure of their place in the pecking order. The teachers told their parents these were the ‘in-between’ years. A tricky, difficult age to pass through but nothing much to worry about. Once fifth and six grades came around, all would be fine.

One of the children who didn’t seem at all perturbed by the challenges of being a fourth-grader was Connor Byrd. Connor, just ten years old, carried himself with a swagger that suggested he was both brighter and braver than the actual truth. Generally, Connor gave the impression, to those who didn’t know him well, of being a boy with a quick, sharp tongue and a street-wise personality.

The middle child of seven, Connor had quickly learned to fend for himself both at home and school. His parents were typical of most of the moms and dads living on Sandbank Road. They worked hard and struggled every day to provide for the family.

Andy Byrd, Connor’s father, owned his own business, such as it was. Mostly roofing, painting and carpentry, but any odd jobs, really, that he could find. Some weeks were better than others; most were not. Of course, Andy was his own worst enemy for often helping out others, particularly the elderly, without any realistic prospect of ever being paid. Inside the home his actions frequently led to rows and knife-edge tension.

Julie Byrd loved that her husband was a kind, giving man. She just wished he paid more attention to her and the kids. Seven was a handful to manage. She did it mostly on her own. That was her job; that was her full-time job. She cooked, cleaned and made sure each child had what they needed, as well as trying her best to provide them with a happy, nurturing environment. The work was exhausting.

Can you at least spend a little part of Saturday with the kids? she pleaded, after the start of one of their rows. Take ’em to the park. The river. Anywhere. It’d give me a break, Andy. Honest.

Andy had trouble seeing her point of view. He was out every day, all hours, working like an ant to make ends meet, while she stayed at home doing…what? Besides, he always felt the kids were mostly her responsibility. They loved her best. That was obvious. It was always…‘Mom this’ or ‘Mom that’, with hardly any of them noticing if he was there at all. Of course, it wasn’t true, but he perceived things that way.

Not this Saturday, he answered, with a shrug. I might have a line on a roofing job down Arlington Street. The guy wants me out there at ten. Who knows how long I’ll be?

Can you at least take Connor with you? The boy needs some guidance, Andy. He’s been running kinda wild lately.

Needs a belt to him, does he? I can do that, but I can’t take him on a job. Not professional…having a kid tagging around after you.

"For Christ’s sake, he doesn’t need a beating, he needs you to pay attention to him. Just like they all do. She turned away from her husband in disgust, trying hard to hold back tears. Oh, just forget it. I’ll take them to the park myself."

This argument was typical of the lack of harmony in the Byrd household. The constant pressure in their lives was almost overwhelming. Julie, at least, recognized the problem, but Andy didn’t possess the wherewithal to understand. Instead, he shut down, stayed away longer than was really necessary and blamed the kids more and more.

Connor, meanwhile, liked the fact he was being supervised less and less. He enjoyed the freedom to come and go as he pleased. His mother hopefully assumed friends and neighbors were picking up the slack for her. He never seemed to be in trouble and she rarely heard bad things about his behavior from school.

When questioned about his day, he’d tell her only those parts he wanted her to know. In reality, Connor was largely living a life without parental control.

For his age, Connor was a big kid, overweight and awkward. He took some ribbing in school because of his size, but generally speaking, he was well liked. Mostly, he hung around with the fifth and sixth graders, feeling more comfortable with them than his peers. Wherever his older friends went Connor usually tagged along. They used him, and he knew it, but he seemed so happy belonging to a group that really didn’t judge him.

Although fairly street-smart, Connor wasn’t particularly bright. He had bravado but not good sense, taking chances without realizing the consequences. In the group he was always the one pushed to try dangerous things first. Sometimes he became the hero, sometimes the goat. But for Connor the ridicule, such as it was, mattered little. He just enjoyed being a part of ‘things’. So, if once in a while he received a scrape or two…so what? The price to him was worth it.

There were several incidents when Connor was hung out to dry by the group. Mostly, they occurred in the old, abandoned warehouse on Leaky Street, just a few blocks from Sandbank Road. After it closed for good in the early sixties, the soon battered and dilapidated building became known locally as ‘The Junk Dump’. Now, the kids just called it ‘The Junk’.

All the kids, at one time or another, had been there. A right of passage some called it, while the parents just called it a dumb, dangerous place to be. Most placed it off limits. Not that that mattered to the bored, mischievous kids on Sandbank Road. And certainly not to the group whose loyalty had claimed Connor Byrd.

The most serious incident involving Connor, the group and ‘The Junk’, happened at the end of the previous summer. Six of them had made their way up to the building’s second floor, ripped up a bunch of old, wooden flooring and started a fire. At first, the experience was fun and daring, until more and more wood was added and the blaze exploded out of control.

Most of the group disappeared when they heard the sirens, but Connor, blinded by the thick, gray smoke, tripped and fell. The cops picked him up as he struggled on a badly bruised leg down the stairs.

He got a beating that night. Andy forbade him ever again to go to ‘The Junk’. The group dropped him because they thought he’d tattled on them to their parents. It wasn’t true, but the damage had been done. Later, he made a few new friends, but the times they had together were nothing like the fun he’d had with the other group.

As for staying away from ‘The Junk’? Well, that just couldn’t happen, could it?

CHAPTER FIVE

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O f all the homes on Sandbank Road the one that housed the Smalls’ family was considered a step above the rest. Set apart from the others by virtue of a public footpath that led to a small, overgrown park and playground, the house was not only larger than the others but the best kept on the street.

The Smalls were another family with a long lineage on Sandbank Road. Geoffrey Smalls, the father, was fourth generation owner of this particular house.

Unlike the previous holders of the deed, Geoff actually experienced some success in his life, enabling him to constantly maintain and expand the property.

He ran a small, modestly profitable, insurance agency, as well as sitting on the town board. In his own way, and by virtue of a tough upbringing, Geoff tried to help others in the community as much as he could. He gave them breaks on their premiums while often settling dubious claims out of his own pocket.

Like most of the adults on Sandbank Road, he was kind and thoughtful to the kids on the street. But only up to a point. He and his wife, Marilyn, had one child, a daughter named Joanne. From the day she was born they determined they would try to give her the kind of upbringing which escaped both of them. And, with his modest success, they were able to make their daughter’s life much better than most children on Sandbank Road. Joanne Smalls, age eleven, a fifth grader, seemingly lacked for nothing.

While their intentions were honorable and well-meant, the reality of the family’s life behind closed doors painted a very different picture. Geoff’s business and civic duties left him little time for any meaningful engagement with Marilyn or Joanne.

His was a life of meetings, late evening calls on clients and mounds of endless paperwork. While always managing to make time for other people, his own family suffered from his neglect in so many harsh and different ways. Of course, his excuse remained constant; what he was doing he did for them, to make their lives better. But routine soon becomes habit. Geoff’s life fell into a predictable pattern which he seemed reluctant to leave.

Marilyn’s early encouragement of her husband’s ambitions was also aimed at providing her daughter with mostly material trappings. Her early life had been spent in relative poverty, shaping her thinking as well as her desires. No child of mine will ever go through the deprivation I did, she often told herself. My child will have the kind of things I never had. While pregnant for Joanne she looked around at the other children on Sandbank Road and vowed her child would not, for even one second, be like them…wanting, needy and shabby. It would not happen, not as long as she had something to say about it.

So, Joanne learned from an early age that she was different from the other kids on Sandbank Road. While they struggled to have a new pair of shoes each year, she had an outfit for every occasion. She went on vacation; they went to the river. She had a room of her own; they had to share, two or three to a bed. Her life, her existence, bore no relevance to theirs.

Of course, Joanne paid little attention to what she had. The material things in her life were just there; she accepted them as a fact. Having new clothes, books or dolls seemed so natural in her life. She didn’t much notice that others lacked what she took for granted.

But as she grew older, two major changes took hold of her life. Her father’s absences grew more frequent. She saw less and less of him around the house and in her world. And her mother, growing tired of a feckless existence, began seeking a new role for herself.

Marilyn, always the homemaker, became restless for a different meaning to her life, other than being known as Geoff’s wife and Joanne’s mother. In her mind, it was the right time to do something just for herself. Besides, Geoff didn’t really need her anymore, while Joanne was now old enough to no longer warrant her undivided attention.

Except, Joanne was not the poised young lady her mother perceived her to be. But no one asked the kid about her life anymore. What she needed or wanted didn’t seem relevant. The days for all of them became a blur of rushing here, there and everywhere. No one much talked to each other. They passed at breakfast like three strangers avoiding each other in an elevator; they sometimes met at dinner where the silence was only broken by coughs or the clanging of knives and forks. The most Joanne could now hope for was a question or two about school. In the end, it didn’t seem to matter what she told them. They hadn’t listened anyway.

Marilyn’s new life, her new freedom, necessitated her finding good people to care for Joanne after school. On Sandbank Road that particular problem was easily solved. In short order, Joanne became assimilated with any number of families only too willing to care for her for a few hours every day. Most of these people had benefited in one way or another from Geoff’s generosity. His good turns deserved reciprocity. They took Joanne in and tried to care for her.

It didn’t work. It never could. The folks on Sandbank Road were not the problem. It was Joanne’s resistance to them that made the undertaking impossible. The way they led their lives, the way they loved each other no matter what, caused her to hold back, to withdraw into herself. She knew these people were different, that in some way they were beneath her. And the hours and days she spent with them became a trial; a monumental effort on her part just to survive.

As she retreated, her loneliness, the solitude within herself, echoed around her head from morning till night. It soon became apparent that no one in the world could be her friend. She was both lonely and alone.

Marilyn and Geoff noticed nothing. Why would they? Their lives were in a totally different orbit. Marilyn, in particular, being the one in Geoff’s eyes who should be nurturing and committed to their child, did only