Wind Is Only A Spirit

By Martin Peters

What do you do when your father dies leaving you with your 19 year old widowed mother who is violent, irresponsible and quick to blame others for her predicaments. This is the story of one boys harrowing odyssey through child abuse, public institutions and inept court systems until he reaches his final resolution. Filled with odd characters and often hilarious with pratfalls of institutionalized upbringing. But in the end there are no heroes and no closure to speak of. Just people caught up in the moment to ease you through another day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669868491

Book preview

Wind

Is Only A

Spirit

29182.png

A Novel by

Martin Peters

Liner Notes & Illustration

D. Beach

Copyright © 2023 by Martin Peters.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 06/20/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

850994

Contents

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

ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE (LENNON-McCARTNEY) 1967

ALONE AGAIN (NATURALLY) (O’SULLIVAN) 1972

COCONUT (NILSSON) 1971

DON’T SLEEP IN THE SUBWAY (TRENT-HATCH) 1967

GIMME SOME LOVIN’ (WINWOOD) 1966

IN-A-GADDA-DA-VIDA (INGLE) 1968

IN THE COOL, COOL, COOL OF THE EVENING (CARMICHAEL-MERCER) 1951

I WANNA BE FREE (BOYCE-HART) 1966

SUKIYAKI (EI) 1963

THERE IS A MOUNTAIN (LEITCH) 1967

TOMORROW’S GONNA BE ANOTHER DAY (BOYCE-VENET) 1966

ZIP-A-DEE DOO-DAH (GILBERT-WRUBEL) 1946

SATURDAY MORNING PICTURES STRAY 1972

A call was made at the Stearns School and there worker talked with Miss O’Hearn, Vice Principal, who reported that John attended that school for three weeks until it was learned that the mother was a resident of Watertown. Miss O’Hearn stated that the boy could not read a story, that he was a disturbing element in the class, that he moved the chairs in a line to resemble a train and while in the school-yard at recess, he would separate himself from other members of the class.

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OBSERVATIONS —John was a boy who was on the tall and thin side for his age. His person and attire were in need of some attention. There were scratches on his face and hands, his hair was long and unkempt, and he gave the general appearance of having poor home care. He had good motor control and there was no apparent physical defect which would interfere with his performance on the tests. He appeared to be quite tense and confused on entering the testing situation, not knowing where he lived, what grade he was in how old he was. He responded slowly, asked to have questions repeated frequently and lacked social confidence and confidence in his ability to understand verbal concepts. On the Performance Scale he warmed up and enjoyed the challenge—making a contest of the subtests, saying, ‘I’ll win this one." His attention to extraneous stimuli was normal and did not impair his efficiency. A very good degree of rapport was attained.

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3/10/64—(T.J.O’Connor) Today in the District Court at Waltham with Judge Crafts presiding; the mother appeared in answer to a complaint of neglect of her minor child. To this complaint she pleaded not guilty. The child John Paul was arraigned on a petition alleging him to be a child in need of care and protection. Miss Bertha Chapin, the petitioner stated in court that she has known the case since 1961; that the boy John was very near an automobile accident. Miss Chapin stated that the children have been left alone, the parents are separated and she is alleging that the child is not receiving the adequate care that he should have. The court continued the cases to 3/31/64 and placed the child in care and custody of his mother and appointed worker to make the investigation, as required by 1aw.

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There is a definite question of physical abuse on the part of mother towards John Paul. She has been known to twist his arm, to hit him with a broom and the boy repeatedly comes to school with scratches on his face and occasionally a black eye. The school authorities also noted that John Paul repeatedly comes to school without his lunch.

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I am writing to confirm our many telephone calls regarding the above named child whom we feel shows signs of physical and emotional neglect.

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John has been absent nine days this school year (five in September, four in November). He has been tardy (wandering in around 10:30) eight tines. Most days he arrives looking battered with many fresh scratches on his face and neck. He has a bedraggled appearance, and at times is inadequately clothed (no underwear). Often he appears extremely tired and has said he gets to bed after one o’clock am.. (on nights mother 1eaves him at his grandmother’s home while she works). He has arrived on sevea1 occasions having had no breakfast

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In May l964, John weighed. 57 1/2 pounds, on October 10, 55 pounds, and on November 11, 54 3/4 pounds. Lately he has been excessively thirsty and, because of father’s history of kidney failure, we feel this should be explored further.

_________________________________________________

We feel that John is an extremely appealing and most responsive child. It is our hope that foster home placement can be arranged until such time as his mother can be motivated to make an adequate home for him.

_________________________________________________

I shall anticipate hearing from you regarding your planning in this situation.

I made the following observation: John has been a troublesome and trying boy since he arrived in my class. Is constantly disturbing the class and me with his actions and mutterings. He is defiant, arrogant, aggressive and has no idea of obedience. I find that John neither takes home notes or any messages given to the class. When he is spoken to he never looks at the speaker and only mutters indistinctly any answers to questions put to him. He is quite apt to shrug his shoulders instead of replying. He just can’t keep his hands to himself and is quarrelsome with the children. The attendance of this boy is very poor. Frequent absences and late arrivals at school, anywhere from five minutes to one hour late. As John has not been able to settle down and concentrate, he has made no progress in his work. Nothing seems to bother him and he appears not to care."

_________________________________________________

He stated the mother said John was a bad boy, and that he was emotionally unstable and the Dr. feels that the boy is emotional]y unstable but not psychotic He stated that when he saw John that John appeared timid, but he was well dressed. Miss Caldbeck reported that the boy recently had a scar on his head and scratches on his face, and that he has appeared in school without breakfast. Miss Caldbeck also commented that a report had been made that John had exposed himself in a taxi cab, being taken home from school. It is her opinion that the boy is doing nothing in school and instead of progressing he is regressing.

10/l9-mo-lO/21/65

_________________________________________________

The School Principal, of the Plymton School, reported that the boy was tardy many times and that because he was in need of special care was placed in the class for emotionally disturbed children. Miss Nuzzing stated that she saw bruises on the boy and of her own knowledge she knows that the boy came to school without breakfast or lunch. Within the last week or so the boy had a serious cut on the back of his head. The examining doctor suggested that he get medical attention and have stitches taken. John stated that he had fallen downstairs.

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1-16-67 (T.J.O’Connor) Information was received that the child John was transported from the Plymton School, Waltham, to the Waltham Hospital. The child had appeared in school with abrasions on two areas of his head. The child was examined by Dr. Malcolm, who ordered xrays. Worker went to the hospital and was told by Dr. Malcolm that the xrays were negative and that he was not certain that the injuries received were a result of being struck on the head by a person. He stated the boy told him that he had slipped on the ice.

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Worker visited John on l2/19/67 he appeared frightful and withdrawn; Physically he was extremely pale and thin. John spoke quietly with worker he stated that he did not like school because he was picked up in a bus which had a sign saying Handicap Children. He admitted that he constantly misbehaves. John understands that he is living at Nickerson Home because he is a behavior problem.

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Reason for Referral

It is the feeling of people who have worked with John that he is a seriously disturbed child who is unable to cope with the demands of family life. He has apparently never adjusted well in a home setting and made most progress while in Nickerson Home.

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4/73 (P. Sylva, GCU) John ran away from Harbor School on 9/15/72 never to returrn. The option to come back was offered but he refused.

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Findings: Basically, John is a very frightened, unhappy, and angry boy. His ego defenses are weak and his hold on reality is somewhat tenuous. He is frequently flooded with strong angry or anxious moments, and often ‘explodes’ at these times. That is, he tends to lose control when angry or fearful — and may lose his temper or distort reality. Projection is one of his major defenses. He blames others and circumstances more readily than himself.

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John is a superficially compliant boy who hates women. He resents his dependence on ungiving and unloving mother figures, yet he needs them for survival. His intense anger toward them is manifested in subtle defiance and negativism. He avoids direct expressions of this anger toward women and so he expresses it in devious non-contact ways (e.g. destroying their favorite objects, wetting the bed, etc.) He feels helplessly manipulated by them — and resents this. Yet, he dare not risk open rejection by a direct confrontation.

_________________________________________________

John is a boy who feels unloved and incapable of loving. He doesn’t trust anyone. He tries to protect himself from a cold, hostile world by staying fairly isolated. He feels somewhat cold, empty, and depressed. Only his intense anger is readily available — and it makes him anxious and tense, Yet, when strongly stimulated his anger explodes directly (rarely to a woman, though.)

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John expects to be rejected as his own self-concept is so negative. He tests others until they finally do reject him. Then he feels—justified in hating them as well as in confirming his own unacceptability.

_________________________________________________

John clearly requires a residential treatment setting at this time. He should not be placed in another foster home where he will repeat the situation of forcing another rejection. He is in urgent need of male therapeutic figures who will help him express his intense anger in direct controlled ways. He also needs to identify with a strong male as his own sexual identification is quite confused at this point. He will test everyone and expect rejection. John cannot believe that anyone will really accept and/or love him.

_________________________________________________

Without a stable setting with therapeutic intervention at this point, John’s prognosis is poor, indeed. He could begin to act out (quietly or violently) in the face of real or imagined threats. Adolescence is only increasing his difficulties. A good residential treatment setting will probably be of considerable benefit. Not only will he receive the therapy he requires, but he may also learn how to relate and deal with other boys of his own age.

ANN CUGINI

CHERYL LIBBY

MARCIA PICCIRILLI

FOR BEING MY HOME,

AND HOME AWAY FROM HOME.

Chapter 1

EARLY MARCH 1962 . . . .

Ouch! I cried, throwing the burnt match stick to the basement floor. Fearing it would be near me, or worse, crawling on me, I couldn’t get my hands around another match stick quickly enough in order to light it. But in an instant a new flame once again glowed. I put the match in my right hand, allowing me to cool my left index finger by putting it in my mouth. Taking a deep breath, I leaned over on my knees. My ankles were sore from squatting in a crouched position for so long. Then, very cautiously, I held the match out over the heart of the floor and surveyed the area. My eyes scanned in every direction. Where is it? It was there a minute ago. Oh please, please let me find it. Oh God, don’t let it be near me.

The flame from the match began to get dimmer. Tossing it and quickly lighting another, I slowly waved my arm around, looking in every crevice. There in the dirt, on a foot imprint four feet to my right, it stood.

It was like nothing these five year old green eyes had ever seen before. Was it a discovery? No, it was a threat! As the match burned out I lit another and edged a little closer to it. It must have at least two dozen legs, and it hasn’t moved yet. But it knows I’m here; I can feel it plotting an attack on me. It was kind of yellowish in color, yet it somehow looked transparent, and it was big, at least two inches long. Now I’m not talking about a centipede, knowing them too well from being shut down in this dungeony hell hole. From seeing me all the time, they probably think I’m one of them.

As the match once again died out, fumbling impatiently for another, my heart raced a hundred miles an hour, fearing it might attack. I figured that as long as I knew where this thing was I’d be safe. But left in complete darkness and locked up in a damp cellar would eventually be the end of me.

With another sweep of my arm across the flint came the fizzling sound of the match igniting; music to my ears. Holding out my arm again, it was still there. Nervously fiddling with the match book, my finger detected my biggest fear; I was out of ammunition. A hot wave of anxiety streaked across my chest. What now? There’s nowhere to run from this creepy thing. Once the match runs its course I’ll be stuck here in the dark, scared to death. I certainly couldn’t run upstairs because the door was locked, as well as a bigger monster waiting on the other side.

Turning to gaze upon that unearthly looking creature for the last time, I could sense it had me at a disadvantage. It seemed ready to move in for the kill. God, I should have killed it while holding the upper hand, but with what? In my bare feet I couldn’t step on it. Besides, what if it jumped on me? Wetting my finger with saliva and placing it on the head of the match, I turned it upside down in order to extend seconds of precious light.

Facing the inevitable, I began to breathe heavily. Once again there was complete darkness. Thinking the worst, I began to whimper. I had to regain my composure.

Suddenly I remembered matches I had hidden under the stairs a few days back. My arm shot like a lightening bolt between the steps and began fishing in the dirt. A moment later my hand found sanctuary. I pulled the book out, lit the match, leaned over and held the light in the same familiar spot.

It was gone! Dropping the match and letting out a scream, I began to feel things crawling on me. But when I brushed my hand over my body, nothing was there.

I then heard feet pounding on the floor above me. Oh no! She was coming.

It was no ordinary walk; it was more like an angry stomp, and I knew where those feet were headed. They came from the couch and bulldozed their way to the kitchen corner where the cellar door was. Hearing the cold steel metal of the lock being unlatched seemed louder than a stereo volume on ten. The door then swung open.

Feeling relief from the kitchen light shining on me from above only darkened as the voice that followed took away my brief moment of security.

What the fuck are you screaming about, maggot? Her voice pierced my body like a knife.

In the most delicate tone of voice that could be mustered from my shaken, thin body I replied, Nothing, Mom.

Then she gritted her teeth, pointed her finger at me and whispered sarcastically, Don’t you ever call me your mother. I’m not your mother. You’re a freak of nature. Now get up here. Then she turned and rushed back to the couch to continue with her soap opera.

Putting my hand on the railing and quietly creeping up the stairs I thought to myself, Why is this happening? Why does she treat me this way? Is she ashamed of me? Why would she say she wasn’t my mother? After all, she is my mother.

Reaching the top of the stairs, I hesitated entering the living room. What could she be up to now? I walked meekly towards her and stopped beyond arms reach so she couldn’t hit me conveniently.

Okay, maggot, she said in a threatening voice. What’s all the screaming about? I stood there like a mannequin, with no expression. Well? she shouted. Answer me!

With my hands at my side, I opened them and shrugged my shoulders like I didn’t know what she was talking about. I couldn’t have told her I was afraid of a bug. She wouldn’t have stood for that, especially while her soaps were on. She then leaped from the couch, grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the kitchen.

Reaching the middle of the room she let me go and went to the refrigerator and opened the door. At this point I was petrified and began to shake unnoticeably. My nerves felt like they were on a roller coaster ride while the ground below was shifting from a violent earthquake. I closed my hands into fists and put them up to my mouth, which was something I’d always done in this situation. Both of my arms would touch together right down to the elbow. It was my feeble way of shielding my body against her beatings.

Standing there I watched her pour a glass of orange juice. Then she put the carton back and shut the door. Her every move made me flinch. Without saying a word she turned and stared at me. As the seconds passed my body began to feel the pressure building up like a volcano ready to explode. I didn’t know which was worse, her silence or her threats. I just wanted it to be over; take my beating and go back to the cellar. Finally she spoke.

I want to know right now what the fuck you were screaming about! Then she began to drink her orange juice.

I had to come up with an answer before she finished her drink. I couldn’t think of one, except for the truth. So I blurted it out. There was a big bug down there and I was scared that it would get me.

She immediately stopped drinking and slowly took the half filled glass from her lips. As she brought the juice to her waist, the expression on her face went from bothered to intimidating. Then once again . . . silence.

Standing and waiting for a vicious reply, the look on her face was now one of disbelief. I saw the calm, but now awaited the storm. Before realizing what had happened I was wearing the orange juice all over my face.

The acid from the juice burned my eyes. I quickly began to rub them, but made sure to keep them opened as much as possible to calculate her every move. She put the empty glass on the counter and said, You pathetic, pitiful pussy. Clean up this mess and get the fuck upstairs. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. With that she walked back into the living room.

Breathing a sigh of relief I walked over to the sink to get the sponge. I hurried along with the cleaning in order to go upstairs and sit in the hallway, out of harm’s way. I tried not to make any noise. At this point the best thing for me was to make myself totally nonexistent.

After wiping up the last of the orange juice I turned the water faucet on really low. This way she wouldn’t hear me and decide to come back in and beat me.

After washing out the sponge, I turned and walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, pretending I was invisible as I walked by. Not wanting her to know I was passing through. Walking up the stairs my feet glided so lightly that had I been walking on egg shells, you wouldn’t have heard a crack.

Reaching the top of the stairs, I kneeled in the hallway. My face, chest, and arms were sticky from the juice. I wanted to take a shower, but she would never have allowed that. The best thing for me was to stay here and make no sound until further notice.

It’s hard to say when all of this abuse began. Maybe it was always there. It seemed the older I got, the more frequently I was beaten. And with the way things had been at this point, I couldn’t have imagined it any worse. Ever since she married John Conti, her third husband in five years, I’d been caught in the middle of their violent arguments, assuming the role of human punching bag. After they would fight he’d yell at me, and she would hit me. Maybe if my father were here things would have been different. I’m sure he wouldn’t have hit me, or been ashamed of me, because he named me after himself, John Paul Garrett. And if he hadn’t liked me he certainly wouldn’t have given me his name to carry on.

My mother and father met through my uncle Joe. My father and uncle served time in Concord State Prison for grand theft. Upon their release two years later Joe ran into my father in Watertown Square and introduced his sister Lucy to him. A year after and four months pregnant with me her mother made her get married. Less than a year later he was dead.

They fought so much in the time they were married that had he been alive today they surely would have been divorced. He died from hypertension due to a disease called Uremia. Toxic metabolic waste products, normally eliminated through the urine, backed up into his kidneys and poisoned his blood. I was five months old when he died. He entered the hospital in late November of 1956, and three weeks later, on the thirteenth of December, he was gone, dead at the age of 24.

The last thing my father said before he died was, Take care of my baby. He uttered those words to his mother-in-law. My mother took his death like it were an inconvenience; she didn’t love him anymore anyway.

When she buried her husband she buried his family with him. She never once took me to see them. She disliked them so much she never once mentioned them. It was like they never existed. I didn’t know their names, nor even what they looked like.

In the year that followed my mother met a man at a dinner party who had just flown in from Chicago to visit some relatives living in the Boston area. His name was Ray Noble, a printer trying to make a good business for himself back home. They hit it off very well. A few months later, in early ’58, he flew back to Boston to ask my mother to marry him. She accepted and we flew to Illinois to live.

Eventually being so far from home began to wear her down. She couldn’t stand living in Chicago, and Ray’s constant dinner parties and social drinking began to get on her nerves. She wanted out, she wanted to go home, away from all these flashy dressing, smooth talking clients he would constantly entertain. She was sick and tired of being his conversation piece. He loved to show her off to all of his acquaintances. She started to feel like part of the package deal he was always trying to sell. When she told him she was leaving and would be filing for divorce when she returned home, Ray couldn’t believe his ears. He begged her not to go, but there was no changing her mind.

Ray couldn’t figure out where he had gone wrong. For the remainder of the time we spent there he was like a man walking on thin ice. Her every wish was his command. But this only made things worse. My mother knew she was breaking his heart, and his constant pampering only made her feel guilty.

So one morning while Ray was working she made a phone call back home to her older brother, Lawrence, who was still living with my grandparents. She asked him if he would come out by car to pick her up. She had no money for a plane ticket, and the one car we had belonged to Ray. I don’t know how she did it, but she convinced him to drive all the way to Chicago to pick us up.

She had it all planned out. She figured Ray would be at work or one of his endless board meetings on the morning my uncle was to arrive, so all she had to do was give him his lunch, peck him on the cheek, and tell him she was making a pot roast for supper.

On the morning of my Uncle Lawrence’s arrival, everything went perfectly. Ray was working when my uncle pulled in at around noon. Without batting an eye she kissed her brother and began loading all of our clothes in the trunk of his car. The whole thing took twenty minutes. She didn’t even as much as leave a note for Ray. She just grabbed me and jumped into the car. We drove all the way home, stopping only once to spend the night at a motel. She brought food for the trip so we didn’t have to stop to eat.

She was very happy to be going home. She hadn’t been to Boston since March of ’58, and it was now November, 1960.

Two and a half years, she kept saying to my uncle. I can’t believe I lived there for two and a half years. It seemed more like two thousand years. Shit, I can’t wait to get home.

When we arrived home we stayed at my grandparents’ house until she could find an apartment and get back on her feet. I was hoping she’d never find one. I wanted to stay with Grandma and Grandpa. They were always nice to me.

My mother and grandmother were always fighting. Grandma never approved of anything my mother did. My grandfather used to say, Where did we get this one from? Nine kids in this family, and she goes the other way. Then he would say, Well, what can you do? She’s the baby in the family. Maybe she needs a little more time to straighten up.

In the months that followed she did exactly that. She got herself a decent job and found an apartment next door to my grandparents. She would work a full week and enjoy the weekends going to clubs with her friends.

In April of 1961 she met John Conti at a bar in Dedham. He was a handsome, well built, woman’s man, whose only concerns were the finer things in life: wine, women, and song. My mother was completely swept off her feet by his good looks and smooth-talking charm. He was mesmerized by my mother’s looks.

She loved it when men came on to her, which seemed to be every time she went out. She was built very well, with beautiful features. Picking up men proved no problem for the 24 year old slender blonde.

My mother started bringing John to all the family gatherings. Everyone saw him as a nice guy. However my grandmother hated him. She could see right through his best behavior and labeled him a short-tempered, narrow-minded, abusive drunk.

By August John was constantly badgering my mother to marry him. She felt that he was the one. After two failed marriages she honestly believed John Conti was her knight in shining armor. But her divorce papers hadn’t gone through yet, and she told John as soon as it was all settled she’d marry him. Her lawyers were taking care of everything, and a settlement seemed very near.

She hadn’t spoken to Ray since the day she ran out on him nine months ago. It must have been a big shock to him, coming home and finding her gone—but not half as shocking as when she answered the doorbell one afternoon to find him standing there. She stood completely dumbfounded. He asked her if she would go out to lunch and talk things out. She refused. She told him there was nothing to talk about. But a few moments later she broke down, and they sat in the backyard and talked for three hours. He wanted to know why she had left, and why she had never answered his calls. She told him she didn’t like his lifestyle and friends, and she hated living in Chicago. She had refused to speak with him on the phone because she didn’t want to hear him crying for her to come back. But that didn’t stop him. Ray used every sweet talking tactic known to man, and then some, to get her back.

At this point my mother was completely fed up with his sycophancy. A moment later she let it all out by shouting, I’ve found someone else, and we’re gonna be married soon. And I’m three months pregnant with his child.

Ray knew right then it was over. Completely heartbroken and looking like a little lost boy, he left that same day and flew back to Chicago.

Two months later John and my mother were married. We moved to Woburn, a town about twenty miles north of Newton. Most of John’s family lived there, and as usual my mother hated his family. John’s mother, Selina, and my mother were always feuding.

When my brother Joe was born in February of 1962 Selina all but took over. She was always advising my mother on what was best for the child. She spent more time with the baby than my mother did. But little by little my mother put her in her place, and before Selina realized what my mother had done it was too late. She had lost the grip she once had on her. It finally got to the point where my mother would only go to her mother-in-law’s house if John were going. Even then she had to be coaxed. She could see her marriage going down the tubes. They were fighting almost every day now, and they could barely stand the sight of each other. Her knight in shining armor had turned out to be the court jester.

I was distracted from these thoughts by the sound of John’s car in the parking lot. The orange juice that covered my upper body began to feel very uncomfortable, so I tip-toed into the bathroom and turned on the faucet really low so that the water only trickled out. I quickly washed as much of it off as I possibly could and a moment later was back in the hallway. Hearing John coming in the door, and the smell of my mother’s cooking told me it was near five o’clock.

No sooner had he come in the house than they began their supper-time nagging. My mother then called me down and told me to put on my jacket and sit on the front steps until supper was ready. Obviously she didn’t want me to hear what they were bickering about. What was going on didn’t concern me. I was just happy to be going outside. For all I cared they could kill each other.

I felt free. The chilly March wind circled my body in a reassuring way. I put my hands in my pockets and realized something I’d put in there. It was a four-inch cylinder filled with a few dollars in dimes. I’d stolen it a week ago from one of my mother’s friends. She would always tell my mother she kept it as a lucky charm. I used to see it on the end table where the lamp sat every time my mother and I went to her house. Opportunity did the rest. She knew it was gone because I had heard my mother talking to her about it on the telephone a couple of days before.

Just then my thoughts were interrupted by a skinny brunette about my age. She had been standing a few feet to the side of me. I’d seen her before; she lived two doors down. She didn’t say anything; she just stared at me in a wondering sort of way. I began by saying, Hi.

She smiled, squinted her eyes and, looking directly at my feet she said, How come your shoes aren’t tied?

I just put them on, I replied.

She thought for a moment and said, Then why don’t you tie them?

Half-heartedly shrugging my shoulders I simply said, I don’t know how.

She paused for a moment and once again had that annoying look of wonder on her face. Feeling intimidated, I told her I didn’t have anyone to tie my shoes like she did.

She quickly came back with, I tie my own shoes.

I began to get irritated, jealous even. I was so upset that this little twerp could tie her shoes and I couldn’t tie mine. I had to somehow get the upper hand. It was then I realized the upper hand that I needed was in my left pocket. Jamming my arm in, then yanking it back out, I revealed the cylinder of dimes.

I’ve got money, I said with a snotty gesture.

Wow! she said excitedly. Where did you get it? Then she moved in and sat next to me.

My Mom gave it to me, I said reassuringly.

No sir, she replied doubtfully.

Before trying to defend my fabricated story I turned around to make sure my mother wasn’t looking out the window or listening to this deception.

Just then the girl tapped me on the shoulder and asked, Can I have some of your money?

I turned from the window and focused in on her eyes and said, Okay. I’ll give you four dimes if you show me how to tie my shoes.

Her eyes then lit up. That’s all? Okay. She got off of the step and kneeled down in front of me and began showing me how to tie them. She would tie one, and I’d follow her by tying the other. After about a half-dozen tries I was a pro. She then stood up and held out her hand, expecting the money.

Wait a minute! I said in a nasty tone of voice. Before keeping my part of the deal I wanted to make sure I still knew how to tie them. For some reason I thought I’d forget. But I tied them just as easily as I’d done a minute ago. Grateful for her shoe tying know-how I gave her six dimes instead of four.

Gee! she said. Thanks a lot. With all this money I can buy something for Daisy.

Who’s Daisy? I asked.

My baby doll, she replied, and she skipped two doors down and went into her apartment.

I turned and kept tying and untying my shoes. I was very proud to be able to finally do this, and I was hoping that someone would walk by and say, Gee, that kid’s pretty smart. Hearing a door open, I turned my head to see who it was. It was the brunette again, but this time she wasn’t alone. Her mother was right behind her, and she didn’t look happy. They came right up to me and, standing side by side, her mother held out her opened hand and asked, Did you give my daughter Jenny this money?

Yes, I said in a quiet voice.

Empty your pockets, she demanded.

Slowly reaching my hand into my pocket, I was hoping it would be a bottomless pit. This way no one, not even I, could reach the money. With all this commotion going on it was only a matter of time before my mother would be at the door.

There was no bottomless pit, just a shallow pocket that seemed smaller than it was before. A moment later I showed her the cylinder of money.

Where did you get all this money? she asked in a stern voice.

Not knowing what to say, I stared down at the one shoe I hadn’t tied yet. I didn’t dare look at her; I was hoping they’d both disappear.

Do you live here, sonny? she barked. I nodded my head.

She then walked up the three cement steps and knocked on the door. I began to feel an emptiness in the pit of my stomach, and my throat felt like it was clogged with marbles. It wasn’t a new feeling. It was something I had dealt with every day of my life. It was my nerves telling me I was about to get another beating. Looking up at the girl I gave the money to I began to get jittery. I wished I could have been her, safe and unharmed. As my mother answered the door I felt like fainting.

Hi. I live two doors down and my daughter came home with this money. She said your son gave it to her. I have three kids and they’re forever taking money off of my dressers or kitchen table . . . She would have gone on and on, but my mother’s voice stopped her in her tracks. She had recognized the cylinder that the woman had stripped me of.

Had this been a rich neighborhood nothing would have happened. But living in a Project where everyone was short of money made me look suspicious. It wasn’t likely you would find a kid around here with three or four dollars in their pockets, let alone a five year old with thirty-five to forty dimes, passing them out at will.

Yes, I gave the money to him, my mother lied cheerfully. Then she looked at me and told me to come in the house. I got up, sheepishly walked by her through the door, turned around and stood a few feet behind.

Thank you, my mother continued. He’s supposed to keep this money in his piggy bank, but you know how kids are.

Yes, approved the girl’s mother. That’s why I thought I should bring this to your attention.

My mother shut the door and turned to me. You sneaky little thief. You stole this money from Flo’s house, didn’t you? I just stood there and didn’t utter a word. Why am I asking you anyway? You’re a lying no good fuckin’ sack of shit. And the way you’re going you’re gonna end up just like your old man, that Irish drunken bum. I can see it now. You’re already beginning to follow in his footsteps. You’re gonna die a horrible death just like he did. Now sit down and eat. I’ll deal with you after supper.

I felt so shaken I could hardly get the food down my throat. My mother walked from the kitchen and went to the stairway to call John to come down and eat.

She continued walking back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room, setting the supper table. Every time she came in I’d stop eating and look at her, hoping she wouldn’t surprise me by lashing out. I knew I was going to get a beating. I just didn’t know when.

John then came to the dinner table and sat down to his meat loaf and vegetables. My mother was still in the kitchen cleaning up. She did this like clockwork. She was such a clean freak that before she’d sit down to eat she’d always make sure that what was not in use was cleaned up and put away. It was like a sickness or a phobia with her. She was unable to sit and enjoy a meal unless everything was in its place.

Suddenly I felt I was being watched. The only other person in the room was John, so I turned to look at him. He was staring at me in a grotesque fashion.

What’s the matter? I said to him in my high, cartoonish voice.

He said, I’m trying to eat, and I don’t like it when the people I’m eating with are chewing with their mouths open. Then with a stern look on his face he leaned in close to me and said, Okay? I quickly shook my head up and down to let him know I understood and wouldn’t do it again.

My mother, who had been listening to this from the kitchen, walked in and said, You’re done eating—get up and get in here. Maybe this was it, the beating of all beatings. Normally she would hit me for nothing. But this time I’d really done something wrong. Not wanting to think about what lay ahead, I got up and slowly made my way towards the kitchen.

She had already been waiting for me, standing there casually, without a care in the world. One arm rested on her waist, and the other was holding the opened cellar door. The pose she was holding looked like it could have been used for a commercial ad in a magazine.

Get down there, she snapped. I knew she was going to hit me at least once; it all depended on how fast I could get by her. She never opened the cellar door for me before to order me down. She’d just tell me to get down there. She could be upstairs, watching T.V. or sitting at the dining room table, and once those words were uttered that was it. But she would never escort me, so it was obvious that I was going to get it. The one thing that bothered me the most was the fact that she never once called it the cellar, or the basement. It was always, Down there. Get down there. There! There! There! I hated the word. Closing in on her I surprised her by running right by. As my feet started their descent into the scary darkness her surprisingly calm voice directed, Come back here.

Just when I thought I’d gotten out of it her demands ended all of that, no matter how nice it sounded. I turned and walked back up the three steps to face her.

What are you running for? she said.

Nothing, I replied.

Well you must like it down there if you’re running.

God! She said it again, Down there. There was no way out of this one; she was ready to start on me. She loved to play these mind games with me. She knew why I was running by her, and the saddest part of all was that I had to play along right up to the violent end.

Calm down, maggot. I’m not gonna hit you. I just thought since you were in such a hurry I should lend you a hand. No sooner had she said this than her hand darted out at me, landing in the middle of my chest and knocking me back. Losing my balance and with nothing to grab onto except the railing, which I couldn’t find, I began falling down the stairs. Suddenly everything appeared to slow down. I felt like the rest of the world was moving along at its normal steady pace while my body, uncontrollably twisting like a pretzel in a dryer, appeared to be moving much slower. It seemed like it took five minutes to hit bottom. Screaming in fear, and crying out in pain, I landed with my stomach sprawled across the steps, with my face in the basement floor dirt. Crying out, with tears streaming down my face, I slowly crawled to the corner, folded my legs and began wiping the tears from my cheeks.

She was no longer at the head of the stairs. She had shut the door and walked away long before I had reached the bottom. I leaned the side of my head on the cold cement wall and let out a sigh. Physically and mentally I was exhausted.

Suddenly I felt something trickling down my forehead and running across the top of my eyebrow down to the cheekbone. In a panic I put my finger on the side of my face and zig-zagged through the thin line of liquid up the side of my cheek to the top of my forehead. On the right side, just below my hairline, was a small gash. I got really scared and began to whine. Was I okay? Was the bleeding going to stop? What could I do? Very quietly I began to cry again. I had had it. How much more of this could I take? There was nowhere to go, nowhere to run from this madness. She knew where I was every second of the day. To her my only purpose in life was being a human broom or mop that you just leaned up against the wall, or put in the closet. I had nothing to call my own. No toys, no friends, no comfort, and no good times. Not once can I remember a good time with my mother. My entire life revolved around one word: Fear! The only thing I ever had was myself, and even that, little by little, was being taken away. I was scared, scared of what tomorrow might bring. And I was terribly lonely. I just sat in the dark, day in and day out, slowly fading away. Most of the time I’d talk to myself just to make sure I really existed, or just to hear a voice, to get the deafening ringing sound of solitude out of my ears.

Wiping the blood off of my face with my gray pullover sweatshirt, I very tenderly patted the gash. It stung every time I touched it. I then put my finger on my forehead just below the cut to see if any more blood was oozing. But there wasn’t. I felt relieved.

Chapter 2

IN THE YEAR THAT FOLLOWED nothing much changed. I was still being abused, and my mother and John were still fighting.

One morning in April of 1963 John and my mother got into such a brawl that I thought for sure one of them would be dead when it was over. The fight ended with John walking out to go to work and my mother throwing dishes off of the door as he slammed it. A couple of days later she drove to Newton, picked up the local paper and read it at my grandparents’ house. She was completely fed up with John, and she ran through the pages looking for an apartment—quicker than she ran through husbands. She found one in Watertown, less than a mile from my grandparents.

That afternoon she drove over to check it out. It was an old brick building with sixteen apartments in it. She wasn’t thrilled with it. Aside from being old, the vacant apartment was on the fourth floor and slightly run down. The view from the kitchen window was of the city dump which filled in the outskirts of the backyard. Being the clean freak that she was, she figured she could tidy up the rooms to make them look presentable. She was short on money and desperately needed a place to move into right away. So she paid the required two months’ rent in advance and told the landlord she’d be moved in by the end of the week. What was about to take place next was quite obvious. She was plotting to run out on John, just as she had done to Ray Noble. It would be the same routine; John gets up, eats breakfast, grabs his lunch and says, I’ll see you tonight. It was like watching the same movie all over again.

She planned her getaway on Monday morning, and everything went smoothly. Once John was at work she telephoned his mother, Selina. She had been taking care of my brother Joey for the weekend. My mother told her she was coming over to pick up Joey so she could take him to buy him some new clothes. As we were headed out the door for the last time there were three guys sitting in a truck loaded with all of our furniture, waiting on directions from my mother. After picking up Joey we drove to our new home, where the movers were waiting to unload her belongings. Whatever belonged to John was left behind.

The very next morning my mother went out to find a job. She was very concerned about her welfare, and she figured she’d work for only a couple of months because she was now close to five months pregnant