That's All He Wanted

When I was a case manager for a foster care company, I received a file on a boy for possible foster care placement. I read through his information, surprised that he could even be capable of all the menacing things listed in there. At just 12 years old, Jackie had taken hard core drugs, huffed gasoline fumes straight from a gas tank, stolen, and physically assaulted his peers. All 4’9” of him.

They brought him in to meet me. He was no bigger than a minute. He stood in front of me. Shy. Stoic. I immediately wanted to hug that little thing up. But he wouldn’t have allowed it. He was hardened, damaged, and constantly proving it.

If you had no back history on him, you would think he was just like any other little boy. Dirty shoes, freckles, and blue eyes that just sparkled through his long eyelashes. But they were sad eyes. They had seen too much in 12 short years.

I placed him with foster parents who lived out a holler in Eastern Kentucky. They were a firm, fair, and loving couple who never had children of their own. They had been fostering for many years and Jackie’s rap sheet didn’t scare them in the slightest. I knew it would be good for him to live out in the country, far from the dysfunction of which he came. He could wade through the creek, catch crawdads, frogs, and learn to fish. Jackie just needed to see how 12-year-old boys are supposed to live.

It wasn’t long before his foster dad had him in farm boots, feeding the chickens. His foster mom had taught him how to care for his things, put away his laundry, and wipe the toothpaste remnants out of the sink after brushing his teeth. He was getting doses of medicine no physician could prescribe and he was better for it. He was proud. I was proud. His foster parents were proud. We all let him know it.

But several months later, his old ways and old life managed to find it’s way back in.

Jackie had been going to school every day, no skipping classes or truancy charges. He had been setting the table, going on family outings, and bonding with his older foster brother. He really looked up to him. His foster brother was in a trade school and making something of himself. He is what Jackie aspired to be. Jackie emulated his every move.

One evening, Jackie said he was going out to listen to music in the car with his foster brother. They had been outside for a short time when his foster mom decided to check on them. What she saw devastated her. Jackie’s foster brother handed him pills. And Jackie swallowed them right up.

Jackie’s case worker and I swiftly secured a spot in an in-patient behavioral health and substance abuse facility. Jackie just cried when I told him where he would be going. Cried like the little boy he was. He was sorry, he said. He wouldn’t do it again, he promised. All I wanted at that moment was to scoop him up in my arms like his own mother should have. I wanted to dry his tears and tell him I changed my mind. But I couldn’t. He had to get intensive help.

The foster family brought him to our office so he could be driven to the facility. A Kentucky Highway State Patrol showed up to transport him. I was confused. The patrolman walked directly to Jackie and towered over him. While the patrolman spoke, he looked down. While he listened, Jackie looked up. Way up. He told Jackie to turn around and put his hands behind his back. I gasped, not believing what I was seeing. Handcuffing this baby? This 84lb baby? I sheepishly asked him if it was necessary. As if I had to convince him, I muttered, “It’s just that he is so little. Please. He won’t do anything.” He paused, and before pushing that handcuff down on Jackie’s tiny wrist, said “I know ma’am. I have to, though. It is protocol.” Jackie didn’t struggle. Didn’t let out so much as a whimper. He looked straight ahead. It was then that I realized he had been here too many times before.

The patrolman told us it was time to go. He gently turned Jackie to face us so he could say his goodbyes.

Jackie looked at me, tears steadily streaming down his red face. With his hands shackled behind his back, he cocked his hip to one side, “Git this money out of my pocket and give it to dad (his foster dad).” “What for?” I said. Jackie let out a wail. “To feed my chickens!” I reached down into his pocket and scooped the contents out. I held in my hand 3 quarters, a crinkled-up dollar bill, numerous dimes, and some lint.

The office lobby erupted in an orchestra of sobs. Even the self-controlled State Highway Patrolman got teary-eyed.

He led Jackie down the hallway and out the back door. He placed little Jackie in his big police car. I called out to Jackie, “You do this program and be good and I’ll get you something special when you get out! What do you want?” Jackie turned his head around to me and shouted, “A Arby’s Beef-n-Cheddar.”

Joshua called his foster parents and me every chance he got. He finished the program and was able to return home. I couldn’t wait to reward him. I went through the Arby’s drive-thru and ordered a Beef-n-Cheddar sandwich. “Will that be all?” the fast-food worker asked through the speaker. “Yes,” I said, chuckling softly about what makes 12 year-old little boys happy. “That’s all he wanted”, I responded back to her.

I was saddened to learn that, when he aged out of the system, Jackie moved back to his home county and reignited a new rap sheet, this time, with adult offenses. A few years ago, an old co-worker called me. She told me that Jackie had been found, face down, in a creek. He had overdosed and drowned.

I hung up the phone and cried. I only wanted to picture my Jackie out in the country, feeding his chickens, snatching up crawdads, and setting his muddy little boots by the backdoor before walking in. That’s all he wanted.

He was supposed to live. That’s all I wanted.