My Name Is River Blue (6 page)

I was jealous of
Richie, a boy who bragged every day about all the things his parents bought
him. That particular day, he was showing off his new clothes and I lost it. He
was trying to impress a group of boys, including me, and with no warning, I
punched his face. I was completely in the wrong, and I never offered any
excuse, but at the time, I didn't have a single pair of briefs without a hole
in them. I took a paddling from the principal and rode home with Mr. Langston
since the school day was almost over.

Mr. Langston was
furious that I had "purposely" interrupted his important schedule of
sitting on his fat ass except for his occasional walks around the home to
scream at the boys. He cursed me all the way to the boys home driveway where he
parked his car and dragged me by my arm to his office. He paddled me again, but
I didn't protest because I thought I deserved more punishment. If Ritchie had hit
me first or purposely provoked me, it would have been different.

Mr. Langston
placed me on his permanent shit list and never missed an opportunity to yell at
me or embarrass me. He blamed me for any phantom infraction he could imagine.
After watching how he treated the other mixed and minority kids, I wasn't surprised
to learn that it was much more than my behavior that he disliked.

The second time
that Mr. Langston decided he would paddle me was for fighting in the home with
another boy who was two years older than I was. I didn't think it was fair for
him to punish me since Danny, the older white kid, started the fight, but the
man disliked me and Danny was his favorite color.

It was Danny's
first time in foster care, and like most boys, he was pissed with his new life
in the boys home. The state took him away from his mother, who was a drug
addict, unfit to care for him. Since he had no other family member who could
take him, the state sent him to the boys home. His caseworker and a cop brought
him to the home, and he didn't calm down until the cop threatened to throw him
in jail for the night.

Mr. Langston assigned
Danny and me the nasty job of cleaning the downstairs bathroom for the
important visit, and it was another reason for the new kid to be upset. It was
the first time that I had any close contact with him, and he didn't know me. If
he had, he would have never shoved me and then punched me in the back. When I
turned to face him, I sprayed disinfectant in his face, and while he couldn't
see, I beat the snot out of him. When Mr. Johnson, one of the staff, and Sean
walked into the bathroom, I was still kicking Danny, who was curled in a ball
on the floor.

Sean Kelley, at
the age of sixteen, was old enough to live at the senior boys home, but he was
still living at the junior home with me. The home's budget was very tight, and
since Sean was good with the younger boys, it was much cheaper to pay him
minimum wage to work there as a part-time helper than it was to pay another
adult staff member.

Sean did his
best to convince Mr. Langston that I was only defending myself, but the man
told him to shut up and find some work to do. When Sean was hesitant to leave
us, Mr. Langston threatened to fire him and move him out of the home.

I was pissed
that Mr. Langston was going to punish me for defending myself, and since he was
going to paddle me anyway, I called him to his face what the other boys did
behind his back. With him dragging me to his office, I yelled loudly enough for
all the boys to hear me call him "a fat-assed, fishy faggot."

Mr. Langston held
me and paddled me, stopping every few whacks to see if I was ready to apologize.
I told him that I would apologize when he stopped smelling like dead fish, and
he kept beating me until he was sweating and gasping. I couldn't stop my tears,
but I never begged him to quit, and I sure as hell didn't apologize. He only
stopped because he was exhausted and struggling to catch his breath. I wanted
to kill him.

When he eased
his grip, I scrambled away from him and yelled, "Fuck you, fish breath!"
Mr. Langston's anger inspired him to chase me one more time around the first
floor of the boys home until I surprised him by ducking into his office. I had
noticed that his key ring was missing from his belt. Inside his office, I
locked the door and grinned when I saw the keys on his desk. He cursed me and pounded
on the door, but I ignored him. Next to his keys I saw plans he was making with
a local TV station to cover the big visit.

When I saw the
station's phone number, I remembered Sean saying that someone should report Mr.
Langston, and it gave me an idea. I wasn't sure exactly what the state policy was
for disciplining us boys, but I knew that it wasn't what Mr. Langston did. I
called the station and told a woman that I was trapped in the boys home office,
and I was afraid Mr. Langston was going to kill me. She heard him yelling and
beating on the door, and I think that's what convinced her that there might be
a good story at the boys home for the local evening news.

It surprised me
to learn how fast an investigative reporter could react to a call. The reporter
and a cameraman arrived at the boys home in less than fifteen minutes. They
entered the reception area, just in time to look down the hall and see Mr.
Langston trying to take apart the door lock to his office. I found out later
that Sean was so afraid for me that he notified the police who arrived a few
minutes after the news crew.

I couldn't see Mr.
Langston's face when he saw his unexpected guests, but Sean told me that his
expression was priceless. I heard him as he attempted to steer the news crew
away from his office, but the woman reporter stubbornly kept redirecting the
conversation to what he was hiding.

I had already
decided that I would hurt Mr. Langston worse than he did me, and while I
listened to him bullshit the reporter, I got the idea to give everyone a better
show when I eventually had to come out of the office. It hurt like hell, but I
socked myself in the face several times until I had the beginnings of some
bruises, a cut lip, and a bloody nose that dripped blood onto my white tee
shirt.

I heard a knock
on the door, and one of the cops asked me to unlock it. I told him I was afraid
that Mr. Langston would beat me again. I even cried loudly, telling the cop how
scared I was. Finally, I opened the door, and it was hard not to grin when I
saw the Latino cop. When he looked at me, his jaw tightened, and he asked if I
was hurt anywhere besides my face. I volunteered to show him my backside, and
he asked his partner to come in the room. I dropped my pants and boxers and pulled
up my shirt. They saw the red welts on my back, buttocks, and thighs, and I
knew from their muttering between each other that Mr. Langston was in trouble.

The Latino cop
nodded his head towards the hall where Mr. Langston was and then spoke to his
partner. "That son of a bitch might not make it to the station." I
had to fight to keep from smiling.

Mr. Langston was
immediately suspended after his arrest, and I felt victorious for one of the
few time in my childhood. During the following investigation by the state, the
boys of color complained of slaps to the face, twisted arms, and beatings with
the paddle. Mr. Langston, who was charged and convicted of multiple counts of
child abuse, was a huge story on the local news. With all the public attention
focused on the case, the solicitor and judge made an example of Mr. Langston by
giving him the maximum sentence allowable under state law.

I thought the
celebrity visit to our open house might be canceled, but the media attention
caused by Mr. Langston's arrest was an even better reason for Senator Paulson
and his wife to pay us a visit. With them, there were two of his aides, a TV
news crew, and a cop in plain clothes. The senator shook hands with every boy,
often pausing and smiling for a picture with his arm around a kid.

He was running
for reelection against a tough opponent, and with the election less than a
month away in November, he needed a publicity boost. At first, I thought that
it was only a visit, but he and his wife planned to show the public that they
were good people by taking a foster boy home to live with them and their two
sons. The Paulsons were state approved foster parents, but they had never
chosen to foster a child until that day.

I noticed right
away that the senator and his wife, who were both white, were polite to the
white boys but focused more of their attention on the minority kids. I didn't realize
at the time how far Senator Paulson was trailing in polls of the Latino
community, which was small, but critical in a close election. I think that the
senator had decided to take me before he ever saw me, and I think there were
two reasons. One was that I looked half Latino, and the other was that I was
the boy at the center of the scandal in which the boys home director was
arrested. My name was kept out of the news, but all Paulson's people had to do
was leak word to the Latino community that he was fostering the half Latino kid,
who was abused at the boys home.

Besides the
political advantage, I think Senator and Mrs. Paulson were pleased to choose me
because I was white enough to be more suitable to their tastes. They spoke to
me for less than five minutes before they took a break to allow their aids to set
up a scene of them choosing me to be their foster son. The last scene the
cameraman shot was of me standing between the smiling Paulsons. They had to
shoot it over again because they forgot to tell me that I should look happy.

The Paulsons'
enthusiasm for me cooled after the election, but they still did nothing to
mistreat me. Overall, they were decent foster parents. I didn't see Senator Paulson
very much but neither did his own sons. Mrs. Paulson was also very busy with
her volunteer charity work. They had a live-in housekeeper that provided most
of the care for Michael, Trevor, and me.

Michael was eleven
years old, and Trevor was only five. Trevor would often bug me to play with him
when his big brother ignored him, and I did because Trevor was a good kid. Michael
had his good days and bad days, and I could never guess how he would act. When
he was in one of his nasty moods, he often picked on Trevor, but he had the
good sense not to start a fight with me. Overall, I would say that Michael and
I got along most of the time.

I was satisfied to
live with the Paulsons, and I had no reason to want to leave. With a stable
home life, in which no one abused me or antagonized me, I was doing better with
my studies, and I didn't cause any trouble at home or at school during the time
that I lived with them. I knew the reason that they took me into their home, but
it didn't change the fact that they were nice enough and fulfilled most of my
needs. In that environment, I began to heal and gradually experience less and
less of the anger that had been driving my aggressive behavior.

I decided that I
didn't want to move again, and I began to try harder not to give them any
reason to send me away. I even did extra chores in hopes that I would solidify
my chances of remaining there until I was out of foster care. After six months,
I was confident that the Paulsons would be my last foster family.

In a sense, I
was right. The Paulsons were my last traditional foster family.

CHAPTER
FOUR

April
1998

The first time I
ever rode in a police car with the blue bubbles on top, I was eleven years old.
It was a warm and humid Saturday morning in April, the kind of day in the South
that could feel like the middle of summer to visitors from a cooler, dryer
region of the country. My tee shirt and shorts were still damp and dirty from
playing football with Michael before we climbed up to the Paulsons' tree house.

The officer, who
shoved me into the backseat of the cruiser, frowned as he wiped his hand on the
leg of his trousers. I noticed a wedding band on that hand when he sat on the
back seat, as far away from me as he could, and again brushed his hand across
his thigh. There was another officer in the front behind the wheel, and both of
them looked fat in their dark blue uniforms with shiny badges and black leather
belts with holsters holding real guns. The officers said very little, and they
didn't smile.

After we backed
out of the driveway, we rode slowly by the Paulsons' neighbors who had come running
out of their homes when they heard the ambulance's siren. The grownups, all
snobbish people with expensive houses, stood on the sidewalks among the
blooming dogwoods and protectively held their kids against them. They stared at
us from both sides of the street as if the police car were part of a parade. I
waved my dirty hand to make sure they saw me in the cool car, but none of them
waved back. Instead, they cut their eyes down or away. I wasn't surprised
because they never allowed their kids to invite me to play in their yards, even
when I promised not to go inside their houses. They were just like the parents of
my classmates from school, and not even the sight of me riding in that official
car would increase my worth in their eyes.

I wished that
the cops would drive slowly past the park so that my classmates who played
there on Saturdays could see me in the police cruiser. I had ridden in the
unmarked state cars that my caseworkers drove, and I had ridden on the boys
home minibus during all the times when I was between foster families. The
unmarked cars and the bus were nothing special, but riding in a police car or a
fire engine was cool. As a state boy who had no friends, I saw my ride that
morning as an opportunity to make the regular kids jealous. By the end of the
day, I would have a completely different perspective on the merits of sitting
in the back of a police car.

We had just
cleared the Paulsons' neighborhood when I worked up the nerve to ask the
officer on the seat next to me if we could ride by the park. He turned towards
me with a blank expression on his bloated face, which was covered with uneven patches
of stubble. He stared at me as if he didn't quite hear my question, so I asked
him again. I knew he heard me the second time because his look of disdain made
me check my nose for a hanger.

"Boy, what's
wrong with you? Is that all you can think about after what happened?"

I hated it when
an adult answered a question with a question, especially one delivered in a
smartass tone that had nothing to do with what I asked and was intended to show
me what a disgusting, worthless, dumbass kid I was. It bothered me that adults
with authority over me could get away with saying anything to me, no matter how
wrong or rude it was. If I said the same to them, they would punish me until
they taught me better than to think that my feelings mattered.

I saw the
officer behind the wheel shake his head in agreement with the backseat officer.
It was unanimous. I was obviously a stupid, half-breed state bastard not worth
their time, but I was smart enough to take a hint. I would not speak again
unless they forced me to answer a question. At eleven years old, I knew snobs
and racists when I saw them, and I wasted no effort to change what they thought
of me. I hoped that the Paulsons would pick me up soon.

Since the
Paulsons lived in Ackers, I had moved back to the same town where I had lived
with Mr. Carver before he went to prison. My stomach rolled when I saw the
officers had taken me to the same police station where I sought help the night
I ran away from him. The outside looked different in the daytime, but inside, it
still smelled like body odor and disinfectant, and the rooms were just as cold.
The temperature reminded me of the way Mr. Langston would keep his office so
cold because his fat ass was always sweating. I figured that some obese cops
probably had the station's thermostat set on frigid, and a quick look around
the room showed me unlimited suspects.

The cops, who brought
me in, dumped me with an even fatter officer at the front desk and left without
saying a word to me. The desk officer asked me some questions and sent me to
another officer who took my picture and fingerprints. I started to ask why and
protest, but I was curious about how cops did those procedures. When he was
done, he shoved me into a nearby room with yet another officer whose nametag
identified him as Officer Woods. He sat behind a metal table full of
clipboards, flattened boxes, and clear plastic bags. I was impressed that he
was in good shape, and his uniform fit well.

"Okay,
son," said Officer Woods. "Empty your pockets on the table."

"Why?"
As far as I knew, the cops were just keeping me while the Paulsons were at the
hospital.

"Because
that's our procedure. Just do what you're told."

"Procedure
for what?"

"It's the
procedure when we have a kid staying with us a while. It's nothing to worry
about, but I need you to cooperate." He sounded as if he was about to lose
his patience.

I did what he
wanted. He wrote on a pad and bagged up my chewing gum and money.

"I need
your wrist watch and your shoe laces." Officer Woods stared at me until I
complied. "Is that all you have on you besides your clothes?"

"Yeah."

Officer Woods
stood and motioned me over to the wall. "I need you to lean over, put both
your hands on the wall, and spread your legs apart."

I didn't move. "That's
what you do to guys you arrest. Am I arrested?"

"No, it's
just our procedure to search you when you're staying with us a while." Officer
Woods sounded agitated again.

I was only
wearing a tight tee shirt and flimsy nylon shorts with low top tennis shoes. I
had already pulled my shorts pockets out all the way, and I saw no reason for
him patting me down the way I saw cops do on TV. I hated anyone touching me,
and I didn't intend to cooperate.

"If you
ain't arresting me, you ain't feeling me up. I want to call my
caseworker." I was confused, but I was sure that I didn't like what was
happening.

He raised his
voice. "Son, you need to do what you're told. Now!"

I stood my
ground. "I don't think so. I want to talk to my caseworker."

Officer Woods'
face reddened, and when he stepped towards me, I moved to the other side of the
table, keeping it between us. There was no doubt in my mind that he wanted to
beat my ass, but he stepped over to the door and called for Officer Ripley to come
into the room. They spoke quietly a moment, and then Officer Ripley addressed
me.

"River, we
won't search you. I'll just take you to a room to wait while we sort things out
with your foster parents. It's just a room to keep kids safe from any bad guys
we might bring in."

It made sense
that they would keep me away from criminals, and I figured that I would have to
leave the room eventually, so I went with Officer Ripley. On the way, I asked
when I could speak to the Paulsons or my caseworker, and he swore they would be
in touch with me soon.

Officer Ripley
led me to a room that was empty except for a small metal table and the three
chairs that surrounded it. The floor was concrete, as were the naked walls,
broken only by a large, dark window in one wall. There was a single metal door,
containing a small pane of glass, in another wall. The officer gently pushed me
down to sit on the chair that faced the dark window and told me to wait there.

I was not nearly
warm enough in the cold air that blew down on me from a ceiling vent and raised
chill bumps on my naked arms and legs. My nervous stomach added to the cold air
to make me shake in my seat, and I wondered if Officer Ripley was freezing me
for disobeying Officer Woods.

I had no idea of
the time as I waited alone and shivered in the depressing room. There was no
clock, and the officers had the cheap wristwatch that Mrs. Paulson bought me
for my eleventh birthday in December. I could hear no sounds of activity
outside of the room, and I stared pleadingly for attention at the wall window,
which I guessed was one-way glass. Either no one was watching me, or they
didn't understand that I was about to freak with frustration over having to
wait in the cold room until I heard from the Paulsons.

My anxiety grew
worse when my bladder
gave me the
first sign that I would need to use a toilet soon. I knew from experience that
adults worked at a speed that suited them, not kids, and since I was a state
kid, I was the least of the cops' worries. Every few minutes, I glanced from
the window to the
door and
wondered if everyone had forgotten me. Would the Paulsons even know where to
find me?

When I heard the
doorknob turn, I stared in that direction and saw an officer poke his head into
the room. Sounds of voices, footsteps, and ringing telephones flowed past the
blue uniform to my ears, and it comforted me to know that there were people
outside my room.

"You need
anything, kid?" From the look on the officer's face, and the way he
committed only his head to the room, I realized that the man wished for a
quick, negative response so that he would not have to waste any effort on me. Too
bad. I
did
need something, and I had become aggravated enough that I
didn't care if I bothered him.

"I need to
use the bathroom," I said.

Officer Poole exhaled
loudly. Obviously disappointed, he motioned me to the door.

"Stay right
with me," ordered Officer Poole. He placed one large, beefy hand around
the back of my neck and pushed me down the hall. He stopped and guided me
through the doorway of a men's restroom. "You need to do number one or
number two?"

"One,"
I said.

"That's
good. Use this first urinal."

The man's hand
gave me a gentle push in the direction of the urinals, which were across from
three toilet stalls with doors. Officer Poole directed me to the closest urinal
instead of allowing me to use a stall because he was supposed to keep an eye on
me. I unzipped, quickly turned into a stall, and began draining my bladder before
he could stop me. Having had very little privacy during all my time at the boys
home, I wasn't shy, but I needed to make a point. Even if I was the only one
who understood, I wanted to feel that I had at least a little control over my
own life. The cop yelled at me for my disobedience, and I ignored him.

When I finished,
I washed my hands, and the officer guided me back down the hall to the same
room. I told him I needed something to drink, and he told me I would have to
wait. I told him that the room was too cold, and he said I wouldn't be in there
much longer. I asked if he had any weed I could smoke, and he said I would have
to wait. I'm serious.

I took the same
seat and watched Officer Poole leave me alone in what the sign outside the door
said was "Interview Room 2." Shivering again, I wished that I could
have gone to the hospital with the Paulsons. I wondered how badly Trevor was
hurt that it took so long for the doctors to fix him. I hoped that they
finished with him soon, so I could go home and take a nap in my warm room.

I reasoned that the
hospital only allowed real family to be with a patient. Since the Paulsons never
left one of us kids home alone, and the housekeeper was off that day, it made
sense that they would ask the police to keep me at the station. Senator Paulson
was an important man, and it didn't seem too weird that the cops would do him a
favor. Still, the way the cops were treating me felt wrong.

After what
seemed like another hour, I heard the AC system shut down and abruptly end the
flow of freezing air coming from the vent above me.

Once again, I
heard the doorknob turn, and I watched a middle-aged man enter the room. He
wore a wrinkled, blue suit, and when his jacket moved, I saw a brief flash of a
shiny badge on his belt. He appeared to have used a bottle of oil to slick down
his hair that was thinning all over his head. The man carried something that
looked like a small radio and set it down on the table in front of me.

Following the
man into the room, Miss Martin, my latest caseworker from DSS, carried a bottle
of water and a protein bar, placing both of them on the table in front of me. Both
adults smiled and sat down in the chairs across from me. The man's smile was
phony and forced, and even though the woman's smile was genuine, I sensed that
she was struggling to maintain it.

Miss Amy Martin,
a pretty, dark-haired woman in her late thirties, had the greenest eyes I had
ever seen. She had been my caseworker for six months since Mrs. Glover quit for
reasons unknown to me. I met Miss Martin the same day that I moved to the
Paulsons' home where she visited me at least once a month. She had always been
friendly to me, and I sensed that she genuinely cared about the kids assigned
to her. She was rare.