Janice suggested we go to Jones Beach, do the walk the boardwalk thing, maybe walk on the sand a bit. From the moment we arrived and left my car in the crowded parking lot the sounds of the people and the smell of the salt water had a calming affect on me. Strange how a single loud noise can be anything from irritating to infuriating while much louder and longer noises can be soothing. I've always loved the sounds of a crowd if not the proximity, to be able to see and hear it without being a part of it. The beach at night was that way, we would walk a distance from the beach and the blankets and the fires and from the amusement centers north of the boardwalk. Perfect. And the lousy food we ate at the Beach Restaurant didn't begin to spoil it.
We walked and talked the length of the boardwalk for a couple of hours, stopping several times to lean on the railing and peer out over the Atlantic Ocean. We never did walk in the sand, a good thing for me; I hate sand in my shoes. As specific as we had talked the night before, childhood memories lost loves and all that, this was a night for the big questions. The whys and n and the whens, you know, the ones with no answers.
"I've thought a lot about what you're trying to do, revisiting your childhood..."
I interrupted her: "Not my childhood, the people in my childhood. There's a difference. I can't revisit my childhood; there's nothing to revisit. I can only revisit the people."
"I'm sorry, that's what I meant to say. But is it going to be worth it, is it going to be a good thing for you? You said that two of the remaining three families treated you badly..."
I interrupted her again: "Bob Tyler would love you."
"What, who's Bob Tyler?"
"Never mind, that's another story. I'm sorry, go on."
"Well, it's just if those visits turn out like the last one you made, how are you going to feel? Would it be just a couple of more bad memories on top of so many others? Showing those people what a fine man you turned out to be might not mean a damn thing to them, it sure didn't seem to mean much to that fat lady you told me about."
"I understand what you're saying. I've thought about it a lot myself. I went back and forth on it for years before I decided to go on and do it. I think it's just something that I've got this strong need to do. I've given up trying to completely understand it, I just know that the risk, if you can call it that, the risk of rejection from people who already rejected me in effect is worth the good feeling I'll get when I accomplish the task."
"Task? Isn't that a strange word to use?"
"Yeah, I guess so but it's accurate. I just need to do it and if any of them come out well I know I'll feel... I'll feel more whole. And don't ask me what that means, I don't know."
We held hands most of the time we walked that night and the pauses in our conversation didn't seem pregnant, they seemed natural. We were clearly comfortable with each other and at least on my part I was more comfortable with myself than I typically was, even compared to how I felt in our old relationship. She was something I'd never had, a real female friend.
But it was that night when we realized that we could be lovers or we could be friends. But not both. And it takes both to have a relationship, a love affair. That was it, we just weren't in love with each other and it was a damn shame. she's one of the best people I've ever known and I know she feels the same about me because she's told me so. And I would have loved to have made love to her that night or this night. But there was something missing that weekend and though we saw each other a few times after that and even made love it was clear that we wouldn't be spending the rest of our lives together. What a pity.
I'm finally in Ohio but I'm still on Route 80 and Ohio doesn't look any different than Pennsylvania. Typical Sean, trying to make nothing into something and then being disappointed when I'm confronted with the fact that it's still nothing. couldn't WAIT to get through Pennsylvania and the question I ask my strange self is 'WHY?' Maybe I need little makeable tasks to feel a sense of accomplishment. Perhaps my problem is only that I don't REALIZE they're make-believe goals and I should just go with it. I'm going to try that.
The summer of nineteen ninety-eight was almost over and I hadn't heard from Kathy, Janice and I had completely stopped seeing each other and I had yet to visit any foster family except the Caputos. Even the job was quiet, we don't get as many visitors in July and August, our sweet and kind principles are on vacation. I was running my ass off, now often seven days a week, hanging out in a local sports bar on Friday nights and spending Saturdays with Jim and Maureen. And even some Sundays. I kept waiting for Maureen to say 'Get a life, Sean', but she was just too kind. It took me until the last week in August for me to choose family number two. The Brauns won the coin flip.
My years with them, between the ages of nearly thirteen and fifteen were spent in their Plainview split-level. Plainview is in east central Nassau County, south of Woodbury and southeast of Syosset. Those two towns represent everything Plainview's residents want to be, a little more educated, a little richer, a little more IN. it's the home for wannabes and the Brauns fit that bill.
My introduction to Claire and Connie--I only heard her call him Conrad one time, during one of their few arguments-- was to be representative of our entire relationship. On the day the social services man, a typically kind person, brought me to their home they greeted me politely, showing me around the house and backyard. It was all Plainview, an above ground pool, a deck and fancy shrubs stuffed onto about twenty-five hundred square feet of sod. Of course that's not what I noticed then, at twelve you don't see those things. My one clear recollection of that day, of those first few moments was how they both shook my hand. I remember thinking that they're greeting me as an adult and how that could mean I might be treated as an adult, a heady proposition for a pre-teen. What I came to know was those handshakes were to be the virtual sum total of my physical contact with these people. These people who'd never had children, who would introduce me to their friends at their backyard parties as "Sean, from Social Services". These people who used me as an example of their generosity, of their compassion, of their liberalism.
The Plainview years were my searching years I'm sure. While I never developed one especially close friend, I always had friends. Soon after becoming a nominal member of the Braun household I took my second shot at delivering newspapers, which gave me entree into the group of local paperboys. Of the eight or nine guys who picked up their papers at the tiny Morton Village storefront, three of them were from my junior high school. By the way, I never knew, nobody did, why it was called Morton Village. Nothing else in the area was referred to as Morton, the company that built it was named FranOne and the corporation that ran it was Larson Brothers. Just another unsolved mystery from the nomadic period of my life.
As I'd signed up to be a Newsday carrier late in the summer before school started I found myself not knowing who were from my school and who were from the Old Bethpage Junior High, the school district bordering Plainview. That school was just a few miles away in real distance, several light years when your life revolves solely around the kids you go to school with. I finally became friendly with one of the Plainview guys I saw six days a week in Morton Village, his name was Kenny and he seemed to have an open ended amount of brothers and sisters and relatives living in his house. It was more than a dozen, I don't think I ever knew the exact number. I don't think there ever WAS an exact number, family members always seemed to be moving in or out and his mom appeared to be constantly pregnant the three years I knew him. And his house was rather small; they lived on the other side of town. Where our neighborhood was made up of "splits", his was made up of little three--bedroom ranches. A step and a half up from the little Levittown bungalows that started the whole process out to Long Island twenty five years before I got to the Brauns.
I remember one very hot summer day, sitting on the curb with Kenny, watching what looked to be hundreds of people, all sizes and shapes, going in and out of his little house. I'm not sure if I thought this then or just now but it looked a lot like the circus, when the two dozen clowns climb out of the red Volkswagen. One thing I did notice and almost asked him about. Why, with so many people living in that house, didn't his grass ever get mowed? We played stickball in the street and if the tennis ball that we used rolled onto his front lawn it was a pain in the butt to find it although it was often worth the hunt as we'd come across other balls, or sections of rope or sports equipment. Stuff.
Kenny hung with two other Newsday carriers, Steve and Jimmy D. I was soon hanging with the three of them though I got into the group too late to ever find out why he was Jimmy D and not just Jimmy. I could have asked of course but you do things a little differently when you're the last guy in.
If there were a group like ours today we'd probably be categorized as outsiders. We weren't jocks, we weren't geeks, we didn't "get in trouble", we weren't particularly popular with other guys and we were absolutely invisible to the girls. We weren't much of anything. But it was clearly a group and for me that was a part of my life that had been missing. And I was as happy as I'd ever been.
At fourteen I was still with the carriers but I was getting bored. I flirted with a group of more, shall we say "outgoing", kids, the kind that DID get in trouble. A fairly large group with kids coming in and others disappearing on a regular basis. They had in common a hatred for school, a hatred for authority and little or no parental control. I fit in to a degree. My feelings for school were less hatred than a complete lack of interest but my feelings for authority were moving past distaste to something stronger. A feeling that's never left me and which I could well do without.
While I had been, all things considered a pretty damn good elementary school student; I had become the perfect example of an underachieving junior high kid in the blink of an eye. And a pain in the ass for my teachers, mimicking the least common denominators of my classes. Amazing what the right surroundings can do for an open-minded child. And this was where, in one way, being a foster kid helped. Teachers and guidance counselors were always making excuses for me, giving me second and third chances while my friends were getting fried for the same offenses I had committed. I was the Steve Howe of the late-seventies. I was on the road to ruin, that is, the ruination of any chance to actually use junior and senior high school as a preparation for advanced learning. The kind of learning that gives you a chance to find a passion and make it your life's work. One of life's only tangible goals worth striving for but one I wasn't even close to being aware of.
As 'understanding' as my teachers and advisors were, the Brauns were no less. There were no limits on the chances they'd give, no end to the excuses they'd make for me. Looking back I think they decided early on I wouldn't be with them that long, that I was an experience for them, a mission, if you will, to be carried out with tolerance and understanding and unlimited patience. Which if you think about it is the easiest route for rent-a-parents to take. Of course this all but guaranteed my continuing to be a piss poor student.
I can't be sure of this but I sort of remember a series of phone calls and some extra visits from social services about a year before I was ultimately removed from their charge. Looking back I think they were trying to get rid of me but there was some difficulty in finding a home for a rather troubling, if not troubled, fourteen-year old.
My next year in school, as a high school freshman I had one of those few teachers that you look back on with fond memories. He liked me; we would often speak as relative equals for a few seconds before or after class, a rarity for teachers with kids of that age. His name was Mr. Wallace, he taught history and coached the freshman cross-country team. He was very skinny; none of his clothes seemed to come close to fitting. He wore short sleeve white dress shirts with ties every day and the large space between his collar and his neck allowed us to watch his ample Adam's apple dance to his words. But unlike all the other teachers with ANY kind of visual fault the kids got off on, he never became an object of derision. And even the day he came to school with one brown shoe and one black one, at least the kids in fourth period laughed along with him.
It was right around that time that he suggested I come out and run, that I wouldn't have to 'make' the team and I could just quit if I didn't enjoy it. I'll always be in debt to Mr. Wallace; he introduced me to the thing that's become the one constant in my life. If being able to spit shine shoes was the key piece of training I got out of three years in the U.S. Army, a love for long distance running was far and away the best thing I got out of high school.
John F. Kennedy High School of Plainview, always referred to as Plainview JFK, was also where I learned how much I liked girls and where I spent one year as a relative outcast. As a member of that freshmen cross-country team I was automatically lumped in with what were considered geeks. But my problem was that I wasn't an interested enough student to be a fully accepted geek. I say interested because back then grades didn't determine geekhood -- or is it geekyness? -- it was attitude. Style, or rather the lack thereof. But I never acted quite uncaringly enough for the geeks to want me as their own and that left me in limbo. And while I basically spent that whole year without strong ties to any of the school's groups, the marks I achieved as a ninth grader would be the apex of my very modest high school career.
Cross-country is a fall sport so I began running almost immediately upon getting back to Plainview JFK and my sophomore year. On the first day of practice I found myself running with a teammate from the year before, a girl who I'd barely noticed. We were running at a very comfortable pace, a pace that allowed my first conversation with her. Her name was Bobbi. she'd only recently graduated from Roberta but hadn't yet shed the geek label. Her braces had come off sometime over the summer, her chest had exploded --well maybe not exploded, expanded at least-- and she had begun to wear make-up.
I've always believed the biggest reason she became my first girlfriend was that I was the first guy to notice her. And having spent the first fifteen years of her life without being hit on she was sweet and gentle and innocent. We ran together everyday and it was after a long early September run into a nasty, chilly wind that she invited me over to her house 'for some hot chocolate'. In that empty house that day we began to learn the joys of sex. Two virgins, the girl just waiting to be taught, the boy as the substitute teacher just one lesson ahead of his class. But we were an example of how much a willingness to learn is worth. And when you're dealing with what nature intended anyway, the transition from neophyte to expert is smooth and delicious.
The combination of cross-country and Bobbi definitely kept me from getting into trouble in class. The time I spent daydreaming about my next tryst with my girlfriend was time I would have spent screwing around and the only rule Coach Wallace had was whatever punishment you got for messing up in school, he would double it and that would be your suspension from the team. I was, for the time being a changed -- if not chaste-- young man.
Bobbi had a kid brother and parents that liked to go out at night a lot, a perfect combination for young lovers looking for a place to make love. Any night that Bobbi's parents had told her not to make plans for because she would be watching her brother was a night we'd make plans for. On those babysitting occasions she'd call me fifteen minutes after her mother and father had left. we'd learned that they would often leave and come back a few minutes later, her mother having forgotten to check if the iron or some other potentially dangerous appliance was left on. The fact that Bobbi didn't know of a single case of her mother's fears being justified didn't reduce the number of times her folks doubled back. So I would begin the ten-minute jog to her house after her phone call to enjoy at least a couple of hours with Bobbi.
Her brother was nine; young enough that she had to watch him, old enough that he had to be a part of our scheme. Money kept his mouth shut, money that I never had and that Bobbi often stole from her father's wallet. Because of running I had given up my paper route so I was always busted, apparently a part of the deal the Brauns struck with themselves. The fact that I was living with them, in PLAINVIEW, in a house with a pool and in my own bedroom was more than enough, in their minds, to qualify them for whatever Karma they hoped to be creating. Braun money was almost as rare as Braun physical contact... almost.
But I was more than making up for the lack of affection from the Brauns with the affection Bobbi was giving me. It takes a lot more living than I'd had at the time to understand the different types of love that we need and the lack of one, at least then, didn't detract from the pleasure of another.
Our lovemaking progressed from fumbling around to learning what felt good to us. We tried everything we could think of in those few months and it was carefree sex, unaffected by fear or experience. No one was concerned about disappointing the other, nobody was trying to please his or her partner and the result was that everything was pleasing. It certainly wasn't the most creative sex or the best sex I've ever had but it was clearly the most unencumbered.
We never got caught but we came very close one time. It was pouring rain and we were in her bed and quite naked. Man, I'll never forget the sound of tire wheels on gravel, loud enough to be heard over the rain on the roof and scary enough to make my heart jump into my head. She threw on a robe, I put on my pants and gathered up my other clothes and shoes and we ran downstairs. She to the door leading into the garage to greet and stall them there, me out the front door, into the downpour.
I can remember clear as a bell running across their lawn, into the backyard of the house next door, first tripping, then jumping over their fence into another yard and out into the street, one block removed from Bobbi's. It made my run back home a bit longer though it really didn't matter. In a few seconds I was drenched and would walk into the Brauns' that way, into a Tupperware party Claire Braun was having. Being a foster child, in their eyes, gave them sufficient reason not to bother asking me what the hell was going on. Questions like why would anyone be out in a November rainstorm, and without my jacket-- that I'd left under Bobbi's bed-- didn't make the cut.
The reason that "You never forget your first girlfriend" is a cliche, is that it's true. I've never forgotten Bobbi. We broke up when a junior asked her to his prom. It appeared to be out of the blue and at first she turned him down. But whether it was the pressure of her friends and family or just a young girl moving on, she changed her mind and agreed to go with him.
"Sean, I just want you to know Tommy and I are just going as friends. I've never been to anything like a prom and my mom said I should never turn down opportunities to do new things." I could have ASSURED Bobbi's mom that definitely wasn't the case with her daughter.
"I think you have to make up your mind, him or me." I know I wanted to say more but I remember being very emotional. She told me she was going to think about it. I was still five months short of my sixteenth birthday but I knew it was over.
When I left the Brauns I didn't have time to say good-bye to Bobbi, as was often the case it was a rather sudden departure. But I could have called and I did consider it but somehow I just didn't do it. I promised myself that no matter how things went when I got to see the Brauns I would ask them if they knew anything about what happened to Bobbi Brownstein, the first of a pathetically short list of lovers in my life.
I just left an Ohio truck stop. Between bites of eggs over easy I watched a waitress spend her coffee break on the phone with her husband or maybe her lover. The conversation wasn't in earshot so how did I know who she was speaking to? Because there is a certain smile that comes over the face of a woman or a man that says they're speaking to someone they love. we've all seen it and we can all recognize it. And I was very jealous of it. It made me question, begin to question the decision I'd made about Kathy. But I'll get to that.
It was nine AM on Sunday, September thirteenth and I was looking in the Nassau County phone book for the Brauns' number. I found Conrad Braun but not in Plainview. There they were in Woodbury, Kristy Lane in Woodbury. Son of a gun, their dream had come true. Wannabes no more, they'd made it. it's less than fifteen minutes from my place to theirs, I didn't have to call and hang up--I HATED doing that-- I just drove over cold. My trusty Hagstrom map said Kristy Lane was two blocks off a main drag and I found it easily.
The block was breathtaking; tree lined would be a gross understatement. Tree engulfed would be close but still short. Every house on the block seemed to be joined in a fierce landscaping competition. And the Brauns' was no exception. Green was predominant but all the homes had giant floral arrangements located strategically throughout their properties. I would guess that if you hovered above their block in a balloon and looked down from a few hundred feet it would be like looking into a giant flower shop.
The Brauns were in the middle of the block, I parked a house away, allowing me to see not only the front of their home but the backyard. What struck me the most was how small it was. It was Plainview size. And when I looked at the front, as beautiful as the home was, it was still just Plainview size.
Knowing what I do about the outrageous cost of homes on Long Island and in Plainview and Woodbury specifically; to live on this amazingly beautiful block, in basically the same house with the same amount of property (I started to say land but that denotes space that they couldn't dream of having in either town) they sold their house and paid an ADDITIONAL three to four hundred thousand dollars. I smiled at my calculations and decided that Conrad must have hit it big. I remember hearing the term "The street", and "On the street" when they spoke of what he did and where he went each morning. As a kid you only hear with one ear, as a FOSTER kid you comprehend even less. But now it makes sense, when the market skyrocketed Connie Braun was along for the ride, a ride that took them seven miles north to their nirvana.
I sat in my car a rather long time, perhaps ten minutes. It was approaching Ten AM on a Saturday morning and no more than a couple of cars had driven past me and I hadn't seen anyone come in or out of any house on the block. Talk about your upper middle class, no small children neighborhood. that's when it hit me, the Brauns must be rather old, they seemed to be kind of old in my memory. But as with so many other things I should have noticed or somehow found out, I had absolutely no idea HOW old the Brauns were when I lived with them. I decided not to anticipate how they looked, not to act surprised.
My experience with Mrs. Caputo had to have affected me; it was another few minutes after I decided to ring their bell before I actually did it. When I did it played a tune I was familiar with but couldn't place. As I was working on it Mrs. Braun came to the door.
"May I help you?" She had partially opened the dark colored wooden door (no screen doors in Woodbury). I recognized her immediately, it may have been fairly early on Saturday morning but she had on quite a bit of makeup and a pretty green blouse with dark pants. She looked good, still slim, not very old.
"Mrs. Braun, I'm Sean Murphy, do you remem...?"
She interrupted me: "Oh my God, do I remember you? Of course I do, I should have recognized you right away, you look exactly the same. Just bigger. Please, come in." I walked a few steps into a large foyer, the floor was marble, I remember that because my sneakers squeaked.
"Come, let's sit down, I have so much I want to ask you." She led me to their living room, one wall mirrored, two white coaches, several large chairs and a huge wood and glass table with a cut glass bowl, filled with what looked like real flowers, beautiful. She guided me to a chair and sat across from me, on the other side of the glass table.
"Connie's playing golf, oh I know how disappointed he's going to be when I tell him he missed you. So tell me about yourself, it's been twenty years you know." I knew.
I gave her a three-minute synopsis of my life from the time I left their home. I finished up by explaining how I was endeavoring to visit 'all the kind families' who had cared for me. She was attentive and acted genuinely interested.
"Are you seeing anyone, you're a very good looking young man you know." The sunlight was increasing and as it did her age was showing through the makeup. I estimated mid-sixties. She didn't let me answer her question.
"Oh forgive me, I didn't offer you anything. You loved orange juice, I remember that, how 'bout a nice glass?" She got up as she posed the question.
"I still do, that would be great." I wasn't thirsty but I was enjoying myself.
"Thank you. You asked if I'm seeing anyone and the answer is no, not at the moment. And no close calls, just a bachelor's life to this point. Your home is beautiful, the neighborhood is beautiful and you look terrific." I was really rolling.
"Thank you Sean, you always were sweet. So how have the other visits gone?"
I didn't see any point talking about the Caputo thing so I told her about Sister Colleen and showed her the picture of me with Father Murphy. I stood over her as she held the snapshot a long time; there were tears in her eyes.
"You know Sean, you've had a very difficult life and you turned out a fine man. You should be very proud of yourself. I'm proud to have played a small role and I know Connie feels the same way."
There was black eye makeup on her cheek but she didn't seem to notice. I took the photo back and sat down. There were a few seconds of silence. I was conflicted, on the one hand were my memories, stone cold people took me in, maybe to show their friends they could back up their beliefs with action, maybe to prove to themselves they could do a selfless act. Treated me as a guest every day I was with them, with no more affection than you would show the paperboy who delivers your paper, not the paperboy that's lived with you for three years. But on the other hand here now was a woman who was truly touched, was happy, more than happy, to see me. Before I could respond she spoke again.
"Would you come for dinner, I so want Connie to see you? Or we could go out somewhere if you prefer. Please don't say no." How could I say no?
She showed me around the house, there was a picture album of which I starred on more than a few pages. Pictures I have no recollection of posing for or of ever seeing by the way. We walked into their backyard. In-ground pool, no deck, this wasn't Plainview you know. There were large weeping willow trees in each far corner and though I'm not a golfer I'm sure you could putt on that grass. We sat on a brick patio at a glass table under a pale blue umbrella, very classy. Still nursing my orange juice I assured her I would take her up on the dinner offer.
But for all its beauty it was still small, very small. Smaller
than the backyard of the little house in Wantagh that my basement
apartment is in. That was my lasting impression of the Brauns'
Woodbury home, that and the beautiful landscaping all through
Kristy lane. A street that would have been spelled Christy if it
were in Plainview.
Questions? Comments? Please send e-mail to jbearden@ieee.org
Material Copyright © 1998-2003 by Jim Bearden