I'll Love You Tomorrow Read online

  “Thank goodness you are here Father!”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Yes Father, we have been in touch with the City of St. Matthew’s Police Department.”

  “The police?”

  “Yes, seems they picked up an abandoned boy in Louisville…he is four years old, and they don’t have a place for him, except the Juvenile Detention Center.”

  “We can’t have that, I’ll go talk with them immediately, if you will be kind enough to get them on the phone.”

  “Yes Father.”

  The discussion was quite simple and to the point, Father would make the drive back into the city to pick up the boy and bring him back to the orphanage until the court decided what to do with him.

  ********************

  It was seven-thirty when Father Hermann arrived at the detention center located on Chestnut Street. It was a foreboding place, five stories of brick and bars with kids hanging out the windows as best they could… yelling obscenities to those passing nearby. A constant stream of people going to the General Hospital Emergency Room…the whole thing was surreal and something out of another century. Father Hermann hoped that his young charge had not already been traumatized by the place…but Father later related to me that he feared that it wasn’t possible since the boy had already been there for a week.

  Father Hermann told me that he heard the loud public address system announcement, “Charles Quinn, please come to the office.”

  ********************

  The small child mimicked the older boys as they washed the terrazzo floor of the County Juvenile Detention Center.

  He could not remember how long he had been there but he did recall the encounter with the police and their promise of an ice cream and ride in the police car to the downtown headquarters.

  There was a stop along the way where one of the police officers made good on his promise to buy the kid an ice cream. Eating it as though he hadn’t done so in a great long period.

  He remembered the police sitting him on a filing cabinet as others at the station passed busily nearby, casting friendly but cautious smiles at the small boy.

  All, in their own way trying to avoid the onerous question…what went wrong in this child’s life to have brought him to a place where no one seemed to care about him or his future?

  After all, the child wasn’t what you might have thought of in a case like this. The victim of a fire, a homicide…he wasn’t deformed…but he was alone when the police came just as the caller informed the police operator he would be. He wasn’t a delinquent…he wasn’t even a juvenile…only a small boy with a pleasant personality, a willing smile and no place better to go.

  So in the absence of someone to care, and no place else for him to go, the court had sent him to the County Juvenile Detention Center at Floyd and Chestnut Street in Nashville, Tennessee.

  It was a large holding center for juvenile delinquents…complete with bars on the windows. But the staff was very protective of small children who slipped through the cracks and had no other place to go, like Buddy Quinn.

  Buddy had a private cell with a small bunk bed, a toilet and sink. It also had a window, which had a view of the street and the comings and goings of a busy place. Even a view of a grade school play yard where Buddy might have gone if he had been old enough. Buddy’s cell was located on the top floor of the four-story building, which housed the infirmary, including spaces for physicians, assistants, examining rooms, dental-office space with all the appropriate equipment. This operation took up most of the floor and with twenty-four-hour supervisory oversight the county was going to make certain none of the small children, who happened into the system, would be hurt or molested on their watch.

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t as much care elsewhere in the facility. Where less fortunate sensitive first timers were routinely harassed, raped and sexually molested by staff and hardened inmates with nothing but darkness on their hands, time to kill or soothe the release of young sap rising. A laboratory for growing cultures of sadistic characters who forced evil activity, physically and psychologically demented against the helpless, the infirmed, the confused and the needy.

  ********************

  Father Hermann told me he was seated in the office when the child came in, led by a corrections officer.

  “I am Officer Kelly…are you Father Hermann?”

  “Yes, I am, and I have this release from the court for the boy Charles Quinn.” Father Hermann handed the document to the officer.

  “This is Charles Quinn…thank you for coming for him Father, I have had a few moments over this child and I am just happy to see him going to a place where he will be safe.

  “Thank you Officer, are we free to go now?”

  “Yes Father…” Officer Kelly bent down and pulled the boy to his chest.

  “Good-bye Buddy…go with this holy man until the courts find your mother or father…this is Father Hermann; he has lots of other boys your age…he will take good care of you.”

  ********************

  Farther told me that the boy climbed into the front seat of the big blue Buick and Father Hermann closed the door behind him vowing that this episode was closed as well on his young life. Father wondered what kind of a man would abandon such a precious child. He was of a normal looking size, about three-feet tall and weighing about thirty-five pounds. He had blonde hair and big blue eyes, which were engaging and not missing a move by anything…then the little guy spoke.

  “But what of my Father”…Buddy protested

  “We do not know where to find him, Buddy. I am a priest who cares for homeless small children until the parents can be found. Please come with me Buddy. I am sure it will be better for you then this center for older boys.

  “I am sorry about your Father, Buddy. What are you able to tell me of him?”

  “Well, as I told the cops my Father left me at our room. He told me not to go anyplace. He said he was looking for work and would return for me.”

  “According to your neighbor, Mrs. Hughes, your Father often left you Buddy… for several days at a time and she was worried that you were not eating or that you might get hurt out in the streets where you often played.”

  “Buddy, there are a lot of children who get trapped in situations like you are in, there is nothing for you to be frightened of …or ashamed. I am sure you Father will return, with a job to care for you and all will be as it was. But in the meantime you can come live with me and several other children at the home I operate for the Catholic Charities.”

  “Yes…but what is the Cath…” Buddy hesitated, he had never heard of the word Catholic, nor had he been exposed to any organized religion.

  “Buddy, Catholic is a word that describes a certain religion and charities is a benevolent activity which we undertake with money donated by church members to help needy people like yourself. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t worry Buddy…in time you will come to know about the church and our work... Most of all you will come to love the Lord and know that he always has a place in his heart for special little people…like yourself.”

  (“Sure,” Buddy thought where was he last week when there was no food. Where was he as Buddy made his way to the market among thieves, beggars and Merchants. Buddy found his own place at the fish market, there behind the Store, he found plenty of fish and loaves, solid broken pieces to feed the hungry.

  He wasn’t alone looking through the cans, other hungry, homeless men and women found the place as well. The carry out section at Fulton’s Fish market was a busy place but not a place to be caught. A place, where the no pay section was routinely roughed up by Peter and his thugs. It wasn’t that Peter was so upset by the beggars eating from the trash. It was… as he screamed at them to stay the hell out of the garbage… more a function of cleanliness. It seems Peter didn’t like cleaning up after them any more than he liked feeding them.

  But Buddy had learned to keep a very low pro
file. He had learned some of the ways of the streets while tagging along with his father. He had caught the eye of Peter, a small child picking up the trash. Peter had tried to speak with Buddy, but he was frightened and quick as a cat. Buddy had seen what Peter had done to others and he had heard the talk about not getting caught going through the trash.

  Buddy was extremely careful because he had heard and had seen some of the ill effects of getting caught by Peter and his men. Since they were fishermen, they jokingly used fishing poles with large hooks to snare and reel the beggars in for the daily beatings. But the market remained busy nonetheless… to a colorful mixture including Buddy and friends picked up along the way.

  There was Johnny and Mary, the street corner vendors of the daily news. Johnny, nearly childlike was an automatic friend of Buddy. Some wondered why the attraction of a seemingly normal woman to a man like Johnny, perhaps their relationship originated in a time when Johnny was more normal. Long before he developed a shriveled arm and foot requiring a shoe with a built up sole, even before he developed a slurred speech through an enlarged tongue and graying at the temples.

  Regardless Buddy heard the talk and knew instinctively that it was cruel for those to suggest that perhaps Mary wasn’t quite so normal. That she was a woman who had become wife, mother and caretaker to a man/child invalid whose passion for playing… fit the games she most desired to pursue. That she was in the abstract, a deviant… who could easily manipulate the simple, contorted mind and body for purposes only she and he could enjoy and understand.

  There was Bob Bermann, who ran the local drug store complete with soda fountain where ice cream Sundays, floats and milk shakes were served up with beer, whiskey and sandwiches, which could be popped into a heating element. The Bermann Dispensary as it was called served the larger liquor needs of the locals including a great deal of cheap wine called Thunderbird. They had magazines as well and all the local teenagers hung out reading the auto, sports and girlie books until Mr. Bermann or his number one assistant Sid Tort, a big hair lipped Jew ran them off like black birds only to soar over the fray and then return as a flock to descend once again on the magazine rack.

  Bermann was a very savvy business-man. All the small businesses paid their employees on Friday. They all came to see Sid or Mr. Bob to cash their checks and settle their local tabs. Typically, most of what they made was owed to the store for the previous weeks purchases on the cuff. But no one seemed to mind that this activity ate away the weekly paychecks. They took the remaining few dollars, if any and graciously blended into the neighborhood. Some into the large old mansions, now converted into several apartments or the walk up tenements built during the depression to house the men working on the public projects.

  Across the street from Bermann’s there was a family style restaurant called Hasenours, owned and operated by an immigrant named Ted Hasenour. A great place to eat but a bit pricey for Buddy and his father. Although they did go there some evenings when they were serving what Buddy’s father called a buffet which contained all the fried chicken you could eat as well as mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn, green beans, Jell-O and fabulous homemade pies. Buddy’s father told him that the pies were not a part of the cost of the buffet and therefore off limits to his budget. He also told Buddy to skip the veggies and eat only fried chicken, which he said a growing boy needed more than green beans, which they could eat from the can.

  Hasenours was a feel good place for Buddy. He often would go by during the lunchtime, sitting near the door he could hear and feel the festive nature of the crowd, no matter what day, they all came and had a great time. Occasionally, Ted Hasenour would see the child and ask about his father. Buddy would always tell him his father was working regardless if he knew where he was or if Buddy knew his father was sleeping off the night before. Hasenour was a big man and always wore a long apron which had food from the kitchen spotted over it. Most of the time he would fetch from the pocket a warm roll which he would give to Buddy, asking his opinion if the roll had enough butter. Buddy would always smile and rub his tummy while licking his lips. Hasenour would smile and wave him off toward the door, no doubt knowing that this was the first food of the day for the small child.

  There were two unwritten rules in this neighborhood, predominately Irish with Hispanic, Jewish, a few blacks, Chinese mix.

  Rule One…always take care of business at Bob Bermann’s. Simply put, this was the neighborhood bank. Mr. Bob never asked any questions, nobody had to sign a note for any advance, there was no interest and Mr. Bob never turned anyone down…unless you failed to show with your weekly paycheck. In that event you not only lost your access to credit, but in many cases you had to face Sid Tort, the hair lipped Jew with the broken nose…an ugly sight which no one in the neighborhood wanted to face.

  Sid Tort was an anomaly among Jews. In a neighborhood where all Jewish men were short and fat, with stubby short fingers that didn’t work so well on manly pursuits of a private nature. Sid Tort was at least six foot five inches tall, probably weighed in at two hundred twenty-five pounds of solid muscle. Those who had seen Sid in action, in his hay day at the gym among the professional boxers, wanted no part of him… he was big, strong and mean as a black snake when he needed to be…but that wasn’t very often. Sid had only to shake your hand to get your attention, and when the vice-like-grip brought a bead of sweat…payment was promptly made.

  Rule two…always take care of the neighborhood children. It wasn’t unusual to see young children, Tomas’s age roaming the streets, even at night. Most of these children had parents working in the factories nearby. Immigrants all… and everyone knew them. They knew as well, that these were good loving parents who just could not afford or help the situation they often found themselves. That is why it wasn’t unusual to see several children in a beat up old car, just sitting, sleeping and waiting…the neighborhood sitter. But in some cases, like that of Buddy, the neighbor who turned him over to the police knew, that his father was a drunk, had not been home for several days and likely wasn’t coming home).

  “We could go by my house and see if my dad had come back.”

  “Would it make you feel better Buddy?”

  “Yes…and it is just down to the corner by the hospital.

  “You know this city quite well, Buddy.”

  “I know this neighborhood, because we have lived at several places.”

  Father parked in front of a large three story Indiana Bedford stone house. He got out of the car and went to open Buddies door. Buddy jumped out to the curb and dashed toward the gate before Father Hermann could gather him in.

  “Buddy, we probably should let the owner know who we are, before we go dashing into the house.”

  “Sure, but we lived in the basement with two other drunks.”

  I rang the front door bell, and in a few moments a young boy of nearly ten came to the door.

  “Buddy, where you been.”

  “In jail.”

  “Is one of your parents here?” Father Hermann asked

  “Sure, come on in, I’ll get my mom.”

  “That is Buzzy Hughes…he taught me to whack my Winnie.”

  “Buddy, what in the world do you mean by that.”

  Mrs. Hughes appeared, and her body language demonstrated that she was annoyed and most uncomfortable. I remembered her name on the police report, she had called the police to report Buddy living alone.

  “Good evening,” Father said. “I am Father Hermann and the courts have asked me to take care of Buddy until they can find his dad…Buddy seems to thank that he might be here.”

  “I haven’t seen that drunk SOB since the rent came due and he abandoned this child.”

  “May we go down to their apartment; Buddy would feel better if had a last look.”

  “Look all you want…it’s just a room…but he ain’t there.”

  Buddy and the priest walked around to the back and took the well-used wooden stairs into the basement. There was no one else there, i
t smelled of urine… so they went directly into the room. Father flipped on the light to discover a dirty, unmade bed, chair and nothing more, he thought.

  Buddy went to a small table and unplugged a radio. “This was given to me to keep me company when my dad went out…I loved listening to ‘The Screaking Door,’ and these clothes are mine.” He picked up two shirts and a pair of jeans. There were no toys, books or pictures…just a dismal room to flop. Buddy would be better at the Asylum, or as Father was coming to know it lovingly as the Home.

  “Have you seen enough of this place Buddy.”

  “Yes.”

  They walked to the car and father helped the small boy into the front seat. “Would you rather ride in the back?”

  “Not if I can listen to the radio.”

  “Sure, I’ll tune it for you.”

  Father made the turn at the corner on Brook Street, not so far from where he had started earlier in the day. They rode three blocks to Market and he made a right turn…on the corner there was a White Castle. “Are you hungry Buddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, me too. How about a hamburger and fries?”

  “Ok.”

  Father picked up the hamburgers, fries with ketchup and a coke for each. Buddy ate in silence as the radio played music from the forties…Nat King Cole.

  (They rode for the longest time. The priest turned on the radio and used the cigarette lighter to light a Chesterfield. He opened the small-vented window, which carried the smoke out of the car and Buddy’s thoughts as well.

  Who was this priest? What is a priest? Who are these other children and where is this place? These and other questions crowded his mind as well as other more personal thoughts about his mother and father, and why had they abandoned him. Until now it had been a great adventure but now Buddy sensed that it was more than that. A fork in the road, which would take him to places unknown, unsettling and he wept silently as he looked out the window at the barren fields as the city slipped away into the farm community, taking Buddy far from his dreams and the family he had known all his life…all four years of it.