Chapter 4
The Treasure Chest
July 1967
At last, Denny came home! Between visits to his grandparents and Boy Scout camp, he had been gone most of the summer, and Willie really missed him. Plus, his buddy didn't know about the big scandal and wasn't forbidden to play with him. Not yet, anyway.
So, while Lydia worked at the bar, Denny and his pal scampered off to the playground or sat in his parents' bedroom watching TV. Willie was careful not to repeat any stories from the lounge; he was as polite as possible to Mr. and Mrs. Malone and always made a fuss over their dog.
Things went pretty well until one night. Sometimes your whole life can change in one night, based on one bad decision. If only you could go back later and tell yourself: Stop; think. That's not what you want to happen.
It was a Friday night, when the boys traditionally watched Hogan's Heroes with Denny's collection of G.I. Joes sprawled across the bed. During the commercials the dolls would attack each other or sometimes join forces to battle Nazis and pirates.
"Hey," said Denny. "You wanna snack?"
"Sure!"
"Okay; I'm goin' to the john first. Call me when the show comes back on." And he was gone.
Willie watched the commercial for a little while but it was about floors with waxy yellow buildup. The next one extolled the benefits of face cream. Champ, the golden retriever, pawed at the door, so the kid got up to let him in. Distractedly running his fingers along the night table, he moved on to the dresser, and a pretty velvet box on display there. He peeked under the lid but then flung it open. Dazzling jewelry the likes of which he had never seen before sparkled in his eyes. Unable to resist, Willie dug his hand in and scooped up a necklace, holding it to the light.
The child's mind flooded with thoughts. This was like a real treasure chest. Come on, nobody needs all this stuff; they surely wouldn't miss just one thing if he took it. He could give it to Lydia, or sell it and be rich—dirty, stinking rich. Then he would—
Willie was fingering a brooch of multi-colored jewels and was about to slip it into his pocket when the bedroom door swung open as Mrs. Powell, the cleaning lady, let the dog in. She had her purse and hat in hand, ready to leave for the day. The youngster slammed the lid down, hoping Mrs. Powell might look the other way. After all, Willie played with her son, Franklin, even though he was colored.
But the maid had no intention of looking the other way. She was across the room in a flash and grabbed the boy painfully by the arm.
"You little shanty Irish bastard," she hissed in his face. "Did you think you could steal that and they would blame it on me?" Willie shook his head but Mrs. Powell took no notice. She dragged him into the hall and down the stairs to the living room where Mr. and Mrs. Malone were enjoying Felony Squad on their color console television.
Denny stood dumbfounded, clutching a can of Charles Chips pretzels, as his mother ranted and raged. Denny's father then marched the little thief home, but Lydia, of course, was not there. Willie was ashamed as Mr. Malone, without comment, took note of the clutter and filth, dirty dishes crawling with bugs in the sink, empty booze bottles lined up on the coffee table. The boy explained quietly that his mom was at work and wouldn't be home until 2:30 in the morning, so maybe he shouldn't wait. He didn't.
However, Mr. Malone returned the next day, wearing his policeman's uniform and accompanied by a severe woman in a business suit, carrying a blue binder. Willie woke his mom, helped her into a threadbare robe and brought her into the living room, after which the youngster was sent away. He listened at the bedroom door but couldn't hear much.
Willie peeked through the door crack as soon as he heard the strangers leave and spied Lydia, miserable and stone faced on the sofa. He quietly approached, searching her face for a clue as to what happened. "Are you very mad at me?" he asked with trepidation.
"Not too much," she answered, smiling sadly as she brushed the hair from his eyes yet again. "And don't you be mad at me." His mom pulled the boy down next to her and squeezed tight.
The next couple of days were weird; Willie couldn't find anything. Lydia said she had been cleaning, and since her son slept on the living room sofa, his stuff got moved around. This was not unusual; Lydia sometimes went on cleaning sprees after months of household neglect, but the kid would have felt better if he knew where his pajamas and some of his favorite comic books were.
There was an uneasy feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
August 1967
"Road trip," Lydia announced abruptly. "Comb your hair; let's go."
Willie had never been on a road trip, but it sounded like an adventure. "Where we goin'?" he asked enthusiastically.
"To see that lady who was here the other week."
The boy frowned. That didn't sound like very much fun, but getting there was great because they got to ride the trolley. As they descended the steps to a connecting subway, Lydia unexpectedly took his arm.
"Let's eat first," she said and steered her son in another direction.
Inside his first Chinese restaurant, Willie was mesmerized by shiny landscape pictures beneath red and gold lanterns. He watched goldfish in a small aquarium along with a little round-faced girl who was probably there all day long and seemed happy for company her own age.
Lydia ordered chicken chow mein, which was slimy but fun, and for dessert Willie got a scoop of ice cream with a fortune cookie on top.
"I dunno what this means," the kid said, holding the slip of paper out for his mother to read. Some people get things they don't deserve. Others deserve things they don't get.
"That's a stupid fortune," she retorted, crumbling it into the ashtray as she reached for the check.
After the subway ride, they took a bus to the entrance of St. Jerome's Home for Boys. "You have to go to a new school now," Lydia explained matter-of-factly as she strode briskly through the tall gates and up the path. "It's no big deal." He sprinted to keep up.
"But why? Is it 'cause a' Mrs. Malone's jewelry? I said I was sorry, or I meant to."
"Don't worry about that. You'll like it here."
Concern crept into his voice as Willie gaped at the imposing façade of the towering old building. "I dunno; it's awful far away. I liked it where I was just fine."
Willie and his mother were led to the admittance office by Sister Anastasia Marie. Immediately he noticed the suitcase which had once belonged to Great Aunt Blanche sitting in the corner. Then he realized—that was his stuff. Lydia would be going home but he wouldn't. Just when was someone planning to tell him?
The boy's eyes glazed over and he didn't hear most of what was said. Chow mein churned in his stomach until he was certain to throw up, or cry, but he couldn't do either one. What if word got back to Joey? Then Willie had a premonition that he would never see his friends again. He strained his eyes to read a certificate on the wall: St. Jerome's Home for Delinquent and Fatherless Boys. It looked like sort of reform school, and that was the same thing as being in jail. Why was Lydia sending him away when he never actually took the pin?
Suddenly, his mom gave him a quick kiss on the top of head, said "See you soon, Big Bill," and rushed from of the room.
"Lyddie!" Willie called after her in a frightened voice, leaping from his chair. Sister Anastasia's head snapped up.
"Young man!" She motioned the pupil to be seated. "That is not how you address your mother."
Willie looked at her with uncertainty. "Okay, lady."
For the next few hours, William, as he was now called, clammed up and followed directions. He was taken to a room where an attendant sheered his hair within an inch of its life, after which she fine-tooth-combed through what was left, searching for lice. Meanwhile, the good sisters ransacked his suitcase, removing almost all his personal belongings except for a toothbrush, play clothes and pajamas. The lad's lip trembled as an old nun gathered his comic books and dumped them unceremoniously into the waste basket. At least the Peter Pan book was not there. It was a relief to think it was safe under the sofa cushion at home.
Willie was led past rows of dormitories named after various apostles until they reached the last room lined with bunk beds. On his cot lay dark pants, blue button-down shirt, clip-on tie and sturdy black shoes—his new, albeit hand-me-down, uniform. He was to quickly change so he could meet the principal. No need to comb his hair anymore. It wasn't going anywhere.
Father Foster was tall, bald and scary, and he wore long, black robes to intensify this look. Other priests had slacks, but not this guy. His office was decorated in dark mahogany and a pampered German shepherd dozed comfortably next to his leather chair. Hanging from a hook behind the desk was a big wooden paddle on which was etched BOARD OF EDUCATION.
Willie answered Father Foster's intimidating interrogatories with his best manners and honesty tempered with discretion, but the pastor's booming baritone scared the shit out of him. No way in hell was he going to be sent to this office again.
"It says in your file that you like to steal things. Is that true?"
"Yessir. I-I mean no, sir. I didn't really—"
"There's no tolerance for that sort of behavior here; you'll learn your lesson the hard way. What is the seventh commandment?"
Willie swallowed. "I dunno," he answered meekly.
"You don't know your commandments!" the priest bellowed. "What kind of a Catholic upbringing did you have?" Willie was unaware, up until now, that he was Catholic or that there were seven commandments. "Where did you go to school?"
"P.S. 113."
"Well, do you at least attend mass on Sunday and say your prayers every night?"
Willie was afraid to tell him the truth, but he was more afraid of what would happen if he got caught in a lie. "No, sir."
Father closed the boy's dossier. "Well, Loomis, your life is about to change."
As he lay in bed that first night at St. Jerome's, Willie stared at the moon shining through the wrought iron scrolls at the window, which reminded him of the playground. They weren't bars, but still, you couldn't get past them, could you? The child worried about his mother. Was she okay? Who would take care of her now? Who would put out her cigarettes? He wondered darkly if now was a good time to start playing the Happy Game.
A symphony of noises from the 14 bunk beds filled the dark room—snores and farts and the rhythmic rustling of blankets. The sound of stifled weeping came from a remote corner. It was almost dawn before the incoming resident fell asleep.
Willie was jarred awake by a clanging bell in the corridor, and it took a minute for the boy to remember where he was. He observed a few dormitory mates ransacking his drawer, in search of contraband. One tough guy discovered the new kid watching them.
"There's nothing in here." He snarled in lieu of introduction. "So, listen up. If ya wanna get along, ya tell whoever visits you, tell 'em to bring smokes and candy bars: Marlboro, Pall Mall, Snickers. Got it?"
Willie nodded.
I'm Carlo, and these," he indicated his pals, "are Antoine and Lumpy." Lumpy thumped him on the arm. "Okay, Lawrence. We're the law in this group, so you follow our orders or there's gonna be hell to pay. Got it?"
Willie nodded as the leader gave him a hard look of appraisal. "Are you a fag?"
Not completely sure what that was, the child concluded that the correct answer was no, he was not.
Carlo got in the newbie's face. "Good, 'cause we kill fags."
Willie's bosses returned to their bunks to get dressed. The school year had not started so the boys wore play clothes.
That first day, the newcomer was pulled out after breakfast. First, he saw a medical doctor, who found him to be below average height and weight, but of sound constitution and brought the boy up to date on all his vaccinations. At his old school, students were prevented from contracting polio via a sugar cube, but this institution had no such conveniences. When he had just about had his fill of needles, the doctor came at him again to take a blood sample.
They recorded his height as 4'4" and a weight of 53 pounds, with blond hair and—the doctor peered into William's face, making him back away. The child's eyes were green streaked with golden tan and rimmed in dark blue. There was no box on the chart for that combination, so the doc shrugged and checked off hazel.
Next stop was for an oral examination. Having never been to a dentist's office before, Willie likened it to a brightly lit torture chamber. It was determined he had nine cavities. The youngster didn't mean to scream but that tobacco-smelling guy in the white coat approached him with yet another needle, this one of cartoonish proportions, and said, "Open wide!"
One technician was called to hold his arms, another his legs. Finally, the young patient succumbed, clamped his eyes shut and took his mind to a different place—but he didn't cry.
The medical appointments took longer than anticipated and Willie missed lunch—not it mattered; his mouth felt like it was holding a football and he couldn't tell whether or not he was drooling.
In the afternoon, the new student was seated in an empty classroom with Sister Joan, whom he thought would be pretty if she wore some makeup. The nun administered aptitude tests on which Willie did his best to focus, but Sister's brow knitted as she reviewed the results.
"I'm afraid, William, that although you are 10, you're performing at below even a fourth-grade level."
Fuck, no! he thought. I can't repeat fourth grade. "But—I already finished fifth grade," he replied, careful to maintain a subservient stance.
"That was in public school. In a parochial setting, our standards are different. I'm sorry." She looked sorry, too.
"B-but that's just because I wasn't taught that stuff. I never learned those god questions. And the math, well, I'm just rusty 'cause I been off all summer and…" He looked up to realize that she was actually listening and so seized the opportunity to continue. "There's a lot of stuff I do know; I can show you."
Sister Joan paused for a moment, then handed him several sheets of loose leaf paper. "Alright, William, show me."
Willie stared at the blank page for just a second and then began to scrawl at a furious pace. The first page talked about Peter Pan. The second recounted the story of Dracula, followed by Frankenstein, Treasure Island and the Hunchback of Notre Dame. He took extra care recalling the American Revolution, naming generals, battles and a famous tea party. Next was the French Revolution with its guillotine. The boy asked for more paper.
Subsequent topics included Knights of the Round Table, the Black Plague, tales by Edgar Allen Poe, and King Richard of England, who killed off his whole family and buried his nephews in the basement of a tower. In the end he was haunted by ghosts and lost his horse, resulting in defeat and death.
Finally, the pencil dropped, his arm and brain exhausted. Not a single comic book plot remained in the student's head, except maybe The Fantastic Four.
Sister Joan read each story with quiet amusement. "Well," she said finally. "Your grammar needs improvement, you don't finish sentences and the penmanship is atrocious. On the other hand, almost everything is spelled correctly, and you certainly are a well-read young man." Willie smiled to himself, and his leg started to bounce slightly as it did when he was anxious or excited.
"But, at 10, you should have only been in fourth grade. Why did you start school a year early?" Willie shrugged, but secretly he knew the answer. Lyddie had wanted him out of the tavern and in school as quickly as possible, so she lied. "If you show me you're studying diligently and trying to catch up, I will graduate you from fourth grade and you may start in fifth this fall." The kid looked crestfallen. "Come now, it's not a punishment. You'll be with children your own age where you belong."
Willie nodded reluctantly.
"Are you prepared to work hard and give it your very best?"
"Uh-huh. I mean, uh, yes...Sista."
"Good," the pretty nun smiled. "Then we'll give it a trial run. You may begin with this." She handed him a Baltimore Catechism. Let's see how many answers you can memorize by next week."
You got it, toots. "Thank you, Sista." He took the book and flipped through. It contained a lot of meaningless, big words and not one picture.
That academic year William did indeed repeat fifth grade, but at least suffered no further humiliation. He also learned answers to the god questions, eventually qualifying the pupil to receive his First Holy Communion and later Confirmation. He chose Bruce for his new middle name—after Bruce Wayne. That's what Dick Grayson would have done.
