A Man Named Dave (29 page)

In the spring of 1992, rumors began to float of severe personnel cutbacks. I saw the writing on the wall. Since the Looking Glass was no longer an operational aircraft and boom operators were not allowed to perform their tasks, I believed I would be among the first to be relieved from active duty. I had always envisioned myself serving twenty years until I could retire, but now that was no longer an option. The air force was also offering early retirement bonuses but for a limited time, and after a certain cutoff, the air force claimed, they could legally dismiss anyone as they deemed necessary. Because of my years in service and my pay grade, I knew I was a prime candidate.

After months of speculating, I had a heart-to-heart with Patsy. So not to upset her, I had deliberately tried to keep her in the dark. “We’ve got to make a decision,” I began. “Uhm, the air force, is going to announce —”

“Get out!” Patsy broke in. “Your job sucks, you’re not happy. I’m miserable. I hate this place, there’s nothing to do. Stephen needs … to be with his family. Let’s take the money, bonus, separation thing, and go home before the air force gives you the boot and you have nothing to show for it.”

“Okay.” Patsy’s outburst had stunned me. “How long … I mean, when did you know?”

Patsy raised her eyebrows. “I know a lot more than you think.”

“Well, hang on, there’s more.
If
we do this, you need to know, I mean fully understand what this means. It’s a onetime payment; we won’t have medical coverage –”

“How much?” Patsy quizzed.

“Well, if we don’t have any unexpected bills,” I said, “we should be able to put some money away for Stephen’s college and, well, the rest we’ll use to save up for a down payment on a home. But,” I warned, “with me being the only one working –”

“I told you, I got a bad back,” Patsy said defensively.

I waved her off. “I’m not saying that. But listen, I’ll need to get at least a full-time job with lots of overtime, if not two jobs.”

“So, they’re not going to give you a lot of money?” Patsy asked, as if offended.

“The way I see it, the air force doesn’t have to give me a thing.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ve thought about this a great deal. I can’t work full-time at juvenile hall; I need a degree, and aeronautics is not what they’re looking for. If I’m lucky, I could work there part-time. Jobs right now are scarce with the recession and all, but … there is an option …”

I spent the remainder of the time telling Patsy about a local speaker organization. “They’ve seen me speak a couple of times, and, well, Rich and Carl, the owners, think I have what it takes to become a speaker. It’s not a bureau,” I warned. “It’s like having my own business. The firm, they provide the support staff. I can work out of California, and you know me, I’ll work my tail off. In a couple of years, if we get lucky, maybe we can get a house and live on the river. Think of it, Patsy.” I reached over to clasp her hand. “It’s the best of both worlds. If I do this, I’ll never be laid off. I can help kids, the people who work with kids, corporations, the works. I know I’ll never be one of those motivational speakers you see on TV, and I don’t want to be. I can’t explain it, but I believe with all my heart I have a message that could really help a lot of people. We may not get rich, but who cares? Think about the impact we can make! And,” I smiled, “they said they’ll publish the book.”

“
That
thing? You’ve been working on it for how long? Why is that so important to you?”

“
That book
is definitely going to change people’s lives,” I stated.
Besides,
I told myself,
it’s a promise I made a long time ago.

“Listen,” I continued, “I know I’m hitting you with a lot. We still have some time. I don’t want to jump into anything without both of our heads on straight. This is only the first of many steps we have to address. Either way, it’s not gonna be overnight. I love the air force, it’s been like a family for me … but I think my time has come.

“I’ll promise you this. If I have to work a dozen jobs to pay the rent and put food on the table, I’ll do it. I’ll never put you or Stephen at risk. I promise.”

Taking it all in, Patsy asked. “How much? With you speaking, how much can we make?”

“Well,” I said, stumbling, “it’s like being on commission. The more programs I do, the more I can make. But there are expenses; I’ll be on the road a lot, and I’m going to have to fill the pipeline giving free programs. But, like I said, after a couple of years we should be able to make a living. I just wanna do a good job, that’s all.”

“One thing,” Patsy asked, “what’s the name of the book?”

“A Child Called ‘It’”.

“That’s
a depressing title. It’s about you, isn’t it?” Still trying to shield her, I shrugged my shoulders. “Let’s just say it’s a story about a kid who never quit.” Looking at Patsy, I could tell I had lost her. I paused slightly before restating. “We don’t need to decide now, but I just want to let you know –” “Go for it!” Patsy grinned. “I say fuck ’em! Take the money and don’t look back. We’ll be fine. I know you’ll take care of us. Let’s do it! Get out!”

I received an honorable discharge from the air force that August. As much as I craved to live on the Russian River, we returned to the area where I had first met Patsy, outside Marysville, so she could be close to her family. We enrolled Stephen in a fantastic school and started anew.

In the fall of 1992, while doing a series of fact checks for
A Child Called “It”,
I contacted my elementary school to discover that one of the teachers who had notified the authorities, Mr Ziegler, was still teaching. He asked me to visit the school. There was an odd note in my teacher’s voice, as if there was something he wanted to tell me.

One of the hardest things for me to confront, far more than stepping into Mother’s lair, was returning to my former school. In the middle of October, on a beautiful, crisp morning, I stepped onto the school yard as if revisiting hallowed ground. The first thing I recognized was the scent of food from the cafeteria, where years ago I used to sneak in, run off with a handful of hotdogs, only to gobble them down behind the dumpster.

I met Mr Ziegler as he accompanied his class into the library, where I gave my various presentations. Because we both felt a little awkward, we gave each other a half-felt handshake and a quick hello. As I spoke to his class, whenever I glanced at Mr Ziegler he seemed to avoid me by looking down and away.

At the end of the day, as hundreds of kids scurried from the school to play or run home, a young boy dressed in a worn-out, oversized down jacket politely asked if he could talk to me. In the heat of the afternoon sun, I noticed that the child was nervously tugging on the ends of his jacket sleeves. After calming the young boy down and assuring him everything would be fine, I knelt down and held his hand. The boy suddenly exploded in a burst of tears, telling me how his uncle would beat him and burn his arms with lit cigarettes. As his little chest heaved, he sniffled. “I’m sorry, Mr Pelzer, I don’t mean to take your time. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Please,” he begged, “you can’t tell. Please?”

I felt as if I had stepped into a time warp. I had met the child I once was. “Listen,” I said, still holding the boy’s hand, “you remember what I said about what happened to me when I was a kid?” The child nodded as he wiped away his tears. “Here’s the deal. We need to get you some help. We’re not here to get anyone in trouble, but that’s no way to live. Am I right?” The boy again nodded. Thinking of my social worker Ms Gold and what she had said to me when I had opened up to her about my secret, I relayed, “Listen, you’re going to be fine. It takes a brave young man to tell a secret like you did, and it’s the first step in making things better. You gotta be strong, but you gotta trust me.” I stopped to look him in the eye. “You’re going to be fine. I promise you,” – with my finger I made an X sign on my chest – “cross my heart and hope to die, you have my word. You don’t deserve to live like that, and we’re going to turn things around.”

I escorted the boy to the same room where I had waited before I was rescued nearly twenty years ago. After speaking to the school principal, Mr Rizzo, I said good-bye to the young man, again assuring him that he was doing the right thing. I then stumbled toward the parking lot in a daze. As I watched a group of children in the playground, screeching with laughter – the same place I had once so desperately longed to be – I started hyperventilating. I couldn’t stop myself. At last, with my hands on my knees, I recovered just before a group of children strolled past. I took a moment to pray for the young boy. I then thanked God for the strange twist of fate of having the privilege of returning to the school that meant so much to me, and how I had played a small part in helping a child in need.

Behind me the voice of my fifth-grade teacher startled me. “Just heard what you did. The kid’s gonna be fine. You certainly have a way with them – the kids, I mean.” Mr Ziegler held out a hand. “Listen, I know you have a long drive ahead of you, but if you can spare the time … ?” A lump began to creep up my throat. All I could do was nod yes.

That evening, during supper in a local restaurant, both of us stumbled to keep the conversation going. I noticed that we made little to no eye contact. I was simply too ashamed. From across the table Mr Ziegler turned away when I looked up from my food and spoke. Clearing his throat as he finished dinner, Mr Ziegler said, “It’s really good to see you … It’s been on my mind for a while, and I need to get this off my chest. I’m not sure if you even know, but … that day, when you came to my class, that day in March when you were taken away …”

I suddenly became paralyzed with fear. I had never known why my teachers finally intervened and called the police. I became so anxious that I thought my eyes would pop out of my head. With my left hand under the table, I squeezed my thigh. I almost raised my hand to stop Mr Ziegler. I got as far as running my fingers through my hair.

“You … came to school that day … you were so small. But, uh – I just got to get this out – you came to school that day in March, with, uh … with no skin on your arms,” Mr Ziegler finished, then took a gulp of wine.

I dropped the fork that I was using. I sucked in a deep breath, staring at my right arm. “I, uh, I remember. I remember …” I felt almost in a trance-like state. “Yes, I remember, grayish flakes, dark grayish flakes, like patches, on my arms and … and my fingers … Right?”

Looking as if he had seen a ghost himself, Mr Ziegler stated, “Yes.”

“I forgot – I mean, I never knew why. It’s stupid, but I never thought it was anything she did different … I mean, at times she, Mother, she was so careful …” I was sputtering as I struggled to find that one thing Mother had done to me that … “Holy shit! Excuse me.” I shook my head. “That’s it. The day – the morning you, all of you, called the police, I remember!” My eyes welled up. “I remember,” I repeated, “my fingers and arms … they itched. I couldn’t stop scratching … and uh, I didn’t finish my chores on time. That Friday morning when you called the police … Mother had to drop me off at school that day. She never did before, but … I was so late, late with my chores. Without skin … I couldn’t grip anything … I couldn’t get them done on time …”

I emptied my lungs in one deep breath. I could feel the tips of my fingers beginning to twitch. “But … it was the afternoon, before Friday, she made me stick my arms in a bucket that had … the mixture … ammonia and Chlorox. That’s it. That’s what did it.” I closed my eyes and shuddered from the cold that crept up my spine. When I opened my eyes, I could feel a small tear running down my cheek. “I’m sorry,” I apologized to my teacher. “I, uh, always had to think ahead, I mean to survive, to outsmart her, and I remember Mother tried, I think, to force my head into the bucket, so, stupid me, all I could do was … to think of… getting any air I could in case … in case she put my head into the bucket.” I stopped for a moment. “I just forgot, the whole thing. My God. I remember everything she did, every word she said, but, I just, I dunno. For the life of me, I never knew what made all of you call the police that morning. So much happened to me on a given day …” I looked down at my hands, which were now shaking. “I know it sounds lame, but you … all of you … saved my life.”

“All we did was …” Mr Ziegler said, downplaying the situation. “Anyway, anybody could see what she was doing. Back then there was nothing we could have done, or were allowed to do. Back then it was considered discipline, parental rights, but we had to do something. Any one of us could see what was going on. It’s something you don’t forget. Ever.”

Afterward, in the parking lot we hugged each other goodbye. “Thanks, Mr Z.”

“Call me Steven.” He smiled.

“Thanks, but I can’t,” I said. “You mean that much to me. You’re my teacher.”

Months later, the week of the twentieth anniversary of my rescue, I returned to present Mr Ziegler with the first signed copy of
A Child Called “It”.
The second signed copy I kept for my son, and the others were given to Mrs Konstan, my fourth-grade teacher who still taught at the school, and Mrs Woodworth, my English teacher who, because I had stuttered in class so badly, had encouraged me to communicate through writing. By dedicating and presenting the book to my saviors, I felt I was able to fulfill my vow of honoring them that I had made the day I was rescued.

Weeks following, I received a framed picture of my teachers taken the day of my visit. Engraved on the frame was WITH LOVE AND PRIDE. Like a child with a prized toy, I rushed to show Patsy, but she didn’t seem too interested. For some time her patience with my new profession had been wearing thin. I tried to tell her, but I could not get her to understand how hard it was to start anew, especially since for years I had given programs for gratis, for organizations that had little to no funds. Somehow, it made it that much more difficult to make a living. To calm Patsy, I told her that because I had not received many bookings, the firm was kind enough to loan me advances. But in order to pay the rent and other bills, when not on the road I worked part-time at juvenile hall and took another job sanding kitchen door cabinets. It seemed no matter how hard I fought to convince Patsy, for some reason she thought I was going to be an overnight success.