A Man Named Dave

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