Foster's Payne: The Least of These

By Tassa J. Avara

Seven abused and unwanted children are abandoned, used as pawns to secure wealth, and caught in the web of a mother's insanity in Louisiana. Their childhood causes them to question if they are enough for God's love. Witness how the convictions of strangers has the power to impact their faith. Will they learn to recognize blessings that bloom from their struggles? Can the Payne children rise above their circumstances? Will they learn to trust in God's timing as they depend on strangers in the cruel valley that is life as they know it?

Foster Payne shares her family's journey.

This story combines many truths with mostly fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350952919

Tassa J. Avara

Tassa Avara and her husband, Brian, grew up in South Louisiana, and were high school sweethearts. At 18, they married, moved north, and raised their family in West Monroe, Louisiana. They have two precious sons and four adorable grandchildren. Tassa's love of children stems from eighteen years of experiences as an elementary educator. She is currently teaching at Boley Elementary and has written and illustrated Christian children's books. Dabbling in photography, she stumbled upon the motivation for her first novel, and a new adventure in writing began. It is her desire that all of her stories would inspire others to come to know God's love. Tassa's children's' books teach morals and kindness, while her novels also teach biblical lessons through fictional characters.

Book preview

Introduction

In many families and relations, there are unbelievably twisted, yet skillfully disguised intentions of those whose desire is to cause harm or abuse. There are also believers and nonbelievers and finders and seekers of faith. Search your soul. Look among you. No one is perfect, but all can find forgiveness. God is allpowerful, merciful, and His love knows no bounds.

I am an elementary school teacher, and I love children. Too often, I meet children that just long to be hugged, to be told that they are special, and to know that they are important in this world. I hope this story, although morbid at times, encourages more adults to pay close attention to the children living among them. There are many ways to assist in their needs for education, basic care, love, motivation for success, and an awareness of suspicious signs of abuse. Don’t be afraid to get involved. Our future depends on us taking a stand for these children.

There is only fiction in this story. However, I’m sickened and haunted by the constant sad reports that I read about in the news or hear on television. There are horrible people destroying the lives of others by committing cruel acts around the world, especially to children. Thoughts of similar events, but in no relation or truth, have been combined to create this family’s dramatic terror. The story begins in late 1990’s, and all events take place within one fictional family, the Payne’s.

Introduction to the Payne Family

I wanted unique names for my characters. Therefore, on one evening drive I began writing down random words that I saw on billboards along the road. From that strange list of words, I began to piece together the characters’ lives. That is how the children in the story received names like Hall, Clay, Foster, Frog, Sylvia, Guy, and Kenmore. The other characters got their names from the same list, but these were from local business’ names on the same billboards. I will never provide the location of these, because they were just random and have no relation to the fictional characters.

The Payne family loads up their seven children and heads off on a journey to build a new life. Abandonment, abuse, postpartum depression, deep family secrets, and murder consume this family. As the children attempt to survive and search for their purpose in this cruel world, they find they need more in life than each other. Can they overcome their past to find faith and forgiveness?

Among the characters in this book, I want you to find yourself. Are you strong in your faith? Are you a believer in God’s forgiveness? Are you forgiving of those who have wronged you? Are you selfless in your strength, guidance, and support of others who need to see God’s love through you? Faith gives strength to survive, forgive, and overcome.

Chapter One

Strangely Unwanted

Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward. Psalm 127:3 ESV

It was the coldest day of this Louisiana winter.

Temperatures had fallen into the teens. The dramatically eager weatherman’s threat of snow never occurred, but it would have fooled anyone from a distance. The ground was covered with the crunchy, crisp, white sleet. Thick, heavy air was filled with frost and mist as the sleet rattled and ricocheted off the trees and paved roads. Our bald, sleek tires struggled to maintain traction as Daddy slowly and carefully guided the truck down the straight, narrow street that was lined with the bare-branched, pecan trees covered in ice. The streetlights reflected off the white ice causing the night to be much brighter than usual.

The eerie feeling of traveling, unaware of our destination, so late, and in such terrible weather caused all of my brothers and sisters to huddle closely for security and warmth behind a rigged divider in the back of our old, rusty, Ford Bronco. We scarcely had room to move since there were seven of us kids. Mama never looked behind to comfort us or check on our well-being throughout the entire, five hour drive from South to North Louisiana. On any decent day, we could have made the trip in less than four hours. If anyone had to stop along the way for a restroom break, my oldest sister, Sylvia, would have to tend to and escort us into filthy fillin’ stations that were void of life on such a night. Money was tight, so we never stopped for any morsel of food. The one year old, Little Guy, cried continuously from the gnarling pains of hunger. No one dared to ask Mama and Daddy for formula or baby food, because they never touched the baby. Literally.

______________

Mama and Daddy never named the baby. He was the seventh, and just popped out suddenly one day. My sister, Hall, said as she pointed, Look! Little bald guy. Hall’s voice rose to a high pitch of emphasis and a snicker of amusement when saying guy, and, well, that’s how the baby got his name. Sylvia, the first born, was the only child with a decent name.

After Sylvia’s birth, our parents obviously didn’t care for the burden of any more children. Regardless, Daddy roughly took Mama on every opportunity when he was in town between jobs, so she finally gave up fighting him off. After us, babies came each year and a half to two years apart. Sylvia did all she could to care for Guy. Since she was the oldest, she found her purpose in life at an early age through the responsibility of our survival and meager existence. She snatched formula cans from the grocer on every visit whenever Mama gave her a list of things to pick up. Sylvia slipped them casually under her shabby, brown coat. It was a boy’s oversized coat that was donated during the school coat drive on one of the few days that we attended school. The elderly, kind grocer eyed us suspiciously over his gold-rimmed eyeglasses every time we browsed in his store, but he never said a word. I guess Mr. Lamon knew our predicament. Of course, he had his own problems, as did all of our neighbors.

Our community was a distant, rural area lined with house trailers and concrete pads for vinyl, covered porches. Everyone in our small, blue-collared community was depressed it seemed. Husbands worked for long periods offshore or in the oil fields, construction, contracting, or lengthy turnarounds at mills. The only thing that kept families in the area was the employment distribution hub located in the center of town. It was between the only church, a southern First Baptist, one run down, cinder block, grocery store that carried the bare necessities, and the inadequate, red brick, school house made of T buildings stood behind it. Neighbors migrated in and out of town so often that no one noticed us or Mama’s hateful, repulsive, and obnoxious behavior. Wives felt neglected, abused, unworthy, and utterly alone. Everyone argued and appeared unhappy due to their unjust lack of fortune. Everyone just longed for more or desired to be someone else. No one paid any attention to us or our needs, because no one wanted to take on more responsibility.

My name is Foster. I’m three years younger than Sylvia. As a girl, I know my name is strange, but that’s because Sylvia told me that Mama always wished I’d gone to a foster home. I was verbally and physically reminded of this every time Mama was cross with me. This was more often than not. My birth spawned something evil in Mama that began her horrific pattern of attempted murders. Well, I’ll call it simply by what it was. Sylvia and I cost too much money to be born, and Mama refused to ever step foot in a hospital again.

The effects of childbirth presented a wicked alteration, which caused Mama to become mentally disturbed. For a woman that was once known and admired for her perfectly curvy figure and elegant demeanor, marriage and children were regarded as her demise. Babies came quick and easy for her; a benefit of being bigboned with wide hips. Mama sometimes whispered troublesome things to herself in mirrors. On many occasions I overheard her growling deeply, I should appreciate my curvy voluptuousness, but I hate it. I hate you, you disgusting, fat pig. These conversations with her reflection and aggressive pounding on her belly rolls, loose chin, arm flab, and dented thighs were lengthy. She would scream at her body and rip at her skin by digging her nails deep within as though exorcising a demon. Sometimes, she would emerge with deep, red, scratch lines and bloody whelps. The most obvious of wounds was always the goose-egg that she wore like a crown in the middle of her forehead from a solitary, selfinflicted blow against the surface of the dresser. This is how we knew she got her point across to her reflection in the mirror. She would emerge the victor and continue her activities proudly, but we knew to remain invisible.

The third child Mama had was named Frog. When he was born, Mama attempted to drown him in the algae-covered, frog pond in the corner of the soggy back yard. Mama just sauntered out casually as her bare feet bogged deep into the mud and dropped him in the steamy water one summer afternoon. She never tried to look unsuspicious or hide her actions. It was as though she was tossing out the leftovers from a meal to feed the turtles. Sylvia, a determined, matronly, five years old at the time, of course fished him out. She said that baby kicked like a frog. As long as we kept our distance, and cared for the younger ones, Mama could ignore she even had children. Daddy could, too, because he was hardly ever home. In fact, he was never present when a child was born. The baby gave Sylvia a purpose, and she tenderly mothered him as if he were the life-like doll she wished she’d had. Little did we know at the time, but God had His protective hands on us.

The fourth baby born was Clay. She was covered with dry afterbirth and hidden under a heavy, clay pot outside the church. We snuck safely far behind Mama when she strolled in her finest Sunday clothes, a white dress adorned with baby blue roses, black pumps, blood-red, painted nails, and hips swaying to and fro. She went to church immediately after the baby was born, before anyone arrived for Sunday school. She enjoyed sitting in the quaint, church garden that was surrounded by sprawling oaks. Sylvia and I crept behind one of the oaks, as the wind through the swaying moss and rustling leaves muffled our motions. Mama pretended to be engaged in prayer and studying her lesson. Appearance was very important to Mama. She was, of course, the biggest hypocrite in town. We saw her casually remove the birdbath perched on the overturned, clay pot, and she placed it gently on the brick pavers. She pulled the blue, limp, wrapped newborn out of her large, leather handbag, and forcefully shoved every delicate limb of the child under the tilted pot Then she placed the birdbath back on top. It was ironic that it was shaped like the open hands of our Lord, Jesus. Mama then strolled on in through the vacant sanctuary’s double doors. When the doors finally closed behind her, we rushed over and pulled the baby out. She had a child’s dirty sock stuffed tight in her mouth, and the afterbirth had dried the color of the clay pot. Sweet Clay then received her strange, yet appropriate, name.

Kenmore, the fifth, got his name when we heard the old washing machine turn on mysteriously one quiet midnight. It was an odd hour for Mama to be washing clothes. The loud thumping of the machine caused Sylvia to jump out of bed quickly to rescue the tiny, drowning rat. That’s what he looked like with that full head of dark hair. Mama was not amused or surprised that we once again saved a baby from her cruel, wicked hands. Instead of calling him Rat, we thought Kenmore was a slightly better decision. However, Mama’s horrible deed left Kenmore’s ears damaged from the scalding water and totally deaf. Thankfully, Mama filled the tub of the machine before she dropped him in, or he might have drowned before we got to him. We came to the conclusion that Mama consciously let us rescue the babies to either keep from getting caught in a crime, or that, deep in her heart… No, she had no heart. Deep in her conscious, she knew her actions were wrong. She had to. We tried to excuse her in our minds as mentally insane. Otherwise, she would have loved us. Wouldn’t she?

Sixth, there’s Hall. Mama gave up on trying to murder newborns. One afternoon, we heard Mama in the restroom. She sounded simply like she was taking a dump. That’s what Daddy would often yell when he was in the restroom and Mama pounded impatiently on the door. Just a few soft moans and grunts later, and Mama supported her weight against the brass knob as she opened the door. We were sitting Indian style in the hall, pressed up against the safety of our own bedroom door in case Mama lashed out, quietly waiting to use the restroom next. There was only one restroom, so there was always a continuous line of frightened, frozen children. Mama straightened her posture, lifted her shoulders, and simply strolled out. Without saying a word, she handed the baby to Sylvia, and went into the living room to continue watching a bold, obnoxious, shrink doctor on a talk show. We always hoped one of his episodes would provide Mama with guidance on child rearing. Anyway, we named the baby girl Hall, because that’s where we first laid eyes on her.

I apologize for my blunt description of our unwanted births, but in this upbringing, I’ve learned to be a little too thickskinned. My limited conversations with only my siblings, language spoken on basic cable channels, and always whispering so that we remained invisible, pretty much sums up our limited, elementary education. We heard Mama sometimes talking to neighbors passing by, and she loved to imitate the regal elegance of movie stars. That helped us learn to speak slightly intelligent. We also heard Daddy talking occasionally to employers on the phone about different jobs and work stuff, and he was a great con artist when promoting himself. But no one, I mean absolutely no one, ever came into our tiny, trailer home.

We went to school a few times, but we smelled so bad and looked so nasty with our ragged, filthy clothes, that the teachers didn’t get close enough to even care. Teachers weren’t around long enough at our school to become very familiar with us, and sat us away from others so that classmates wouldn’t’ complain about being near us. When a teacher did take interest or express concern, Mama decided it was best to keep us at home, and blamed us for taking up her precious time and space. Eventually, a police would show up on the freshly painted doorstep surrounded by neatly kept flower beds and blooming potted plants. He would observe Mama in her nice clothes and get a glimpse of the immaculate living room. Mama used that word with pride all the time. The police then accepted her ridiculous excuses of caring for too many sick children, gave her a warning about truancy, and we would return to school again for a short while after. Returning to school was not an escape, but a prison-sentence. We were beat, faces slapped, shoved to the floor, and our hair pulled with such force to thrust our heads back. While pressing her flaming eyes into ours, and breathing heavily, she dared us to speak to anyone at school. She declared that she would succeed in killing the others if her secrets ever got out. There was never any doubt that she was capable of it, and no one would take notice if she did.

Homework was not allowed at our house, because Mama couldn’t stand having messy papers and books all over my fine dining room table! She refused to get us backpacks or supplies, because those teachers are getting paid to teach. I’m not doing their job for them! Not that Mama would ever try to help us learn. Teachers would take our recess, stand us in the corner, or call us out in class for being irresponsible if our papers were not signed. Sylvia and I feared going to school, not for ourselves, but for the little ones left locked in the back room at home. It was a miracle that babies so young survived alone during the day. We were usually tardy for feeding and caring for Hall and Guy before we headed out. We would prop a mattress over the doorway to prevent Mama from hearing them scream all day. Every day when we returned home, we found them covered in mess from torn dirty diapers, red faced from all their tears, and bruised from being clumsy toddlers. However, the toughest chore came from Frog,

Clay, and Kenmore. They always felt so free once outside, that it was difficult to herd them to the school building without drawing unwanted attention and crude remarks.

Our moods and manners were never appropriate either. Eating stews, chicken nuggets, macaroni, and lots of oatmeal alone on the covered back porch without utensils was not proper. But it was easier for Mama to keep my area of the house tranquil and pleasant. She had us hose and sweep the concrete after we ate on the cold porch.

We were extremely frightened that anything we did would cause Mama to explode, and therefore we were always ready to defend or fight off an attack when Mama got mad. She pulled our hair, slapped us, slammed doors in our faces, and even on our fingers, when we… no, honestly, it almost seemed like when she wanted to feel better about herself. It was always after she looked in a mirror, or saw someone pretty and wealthy on television that she came after us. I always got it worse. Sylvia guarded the younger ones, while I just screamed and launched wildly back at Mama. She would fight me off, throw me against a wall, and slam the door behind her. I honestly believe that when I behaved as crazy and wild as Mama when she was angry, it frightened her enough to back down. I think she was afraid the neighbors would hear us. Of course, she despised me more than the others, and it was always a struggle in my mind. I also hated myself for behaving or being anything like my mama. Through our bedroom keyhole, I always saw her swoosh her hair back, cock her head to the side, straighten her dress and shoulders, and walk back to the front of the house as though she had conquered the world. Then there would be peace.

Sylvia was thirteen years old, but had watched enough television from behind the floral couch to know how to do most chores for us. After trial and error, she learned to wash our clothes. We couldn’t do it every day, because we had to sneak only when Mama was out. If the clothes weren’t dry by the time Mama got home, we grabbed them quickly and just hung them in our room to dry. That’s right, room. We all shared one room on the opposite side of the trailer house from where Mama and Daddy slept. The room was large enough for two old, lumpy mattresses that were placed on the floor. They were disgustingly smelly and dingy, after so many sick babies with leaky, cheap diapers. Mr.

Lamon never mentioned us taking diapers out of his store, either. One mattress was for the three boys, and one for the four girls. Mama kept a porcelain nightlight on in the hall continuously. It supported a fragrant, candle, wax burner on top to prevent our smell from traveling through to the rest of the house. She went so far as to mix scented oils in with the wax. That’s how much she either wanted to avoid acknowledging her children’s existence or our room really was that rank.

We took baths when Mama was gone, also, although not as often as was needed. The hazard of being caught was not worth the risk to attempt baths more. We frantically jumped in and out as quickly as possible. We were cautious to clean and dry the tub very well. Mama would become furious if her much needed bubble bath was hindered by nasty children residue. We left absolutely zero signs of our presence, because the beatings and screaming insults were too traumatic to experience again.

You might ask, Why didn’t we run when Mama was out? Well, our minds were overflowing with her reminders that no one would want us. No one can handle seven, smelly children. We were even told that if God loved us, He would have given us to a family that loved us or simply, let you die when I tried to kill you!

______________

Mama received a phone call that was very brief the day before. After she got off the phone, she told Daddy, I’m packing our bags, and we are leaving this small house and boring town! I deserve better, and now I’ve been blessed with an escape! You have this opportunity and are going to take it. We wondered if blessed meant something different. The blessings we heard about on Mama’s Christian broadcasts always showed blessings going to good people who knew God and Jesus. Why would God bless her? We whispered the question to each other. She was dancing and cheering in a way we never saw before. From the crack around the broken doorknob from so many slams, we took turns peering through to watch her and Daddy celebrate. All except Kenmore, who couldn’t hear anything. He sat on the corner of the mattress rocking back and forth, gurgling his slobber on his tongue, and moaning. Something else was unusual about him other than just being deaf, but we didn’t know what to call it. Little Hall heard Mama’s joyous laughter and giggled with excitement. Hall had poor coordination. So, when she stood on her own, in her oversized T-shirt, she pushed slightly against the door trying to bounce and keep her balance. The door eased open a bit, and Mama glared with evil, piercing eyes as though she was daring us to step out. Sylvia shut the door back so gently and quietly, and we crept back onto the tattered mattresses.

All through the night, Mama and Daddy packed a small, UHaul trailer that they hitched to the rear of the Bronco. They packed all of their clothes and belongings into large boxes. Earlier, Mama demanded to Daddy, Get off your lazy butt, and get boxes! She had sent Daddy to get them from behind Lamon’s Grocery. Anything else they could take from the rental property, they desperately crammed into that small enclosed trailer. They managed to get the floral couch, cherry dining table and chairs, and all her fancy pots and dishes, which we never got to use. The doors to the trailer barely closed, and then Daddy put a large, rusty padlock on the latch. We saw all of this from our dark bedroom as we peered through the thick, dusty drapes. Cobwebs tickled our faces as we watched, but this was more excitement than we ever had. The bickering, constant demands, and screams of caution when Daddy held something breakable…It was