Commentary : Heart Aches Over Boy’s Sorrowful Legacy

If there ever was a child I would take, no questions asked, it would be Bobby. If someone knocked on my door and asked, “Would you give Bobby a home?” I wouldn’t hesitate to say, “Yes, when can I have him?”

That’s a fantasy; it’s not going to happen. I haven’t seen Bobby for two years. He was a neighbor kid in a San Diego apartment complex we both left two years ago, me for Seattle and him for North Carolina. But I still think about him. I think about him because he was an abused child. Not directly, not physically abused, but as a witness to an abusive relationship.

From the moment I saw his freckled face, gap-toothed grin and thatch of auburn hair, Bobby held my interest. Before I ever knew what went on in the apartment across the courtyard, it was him I watched when the army of kids in our complex exploded into the yard every day after school. His style made me think of Norman Rockwell’s paintings of little boys, mischievous but innocent. He had a spark that hooked me.

His hair alone was enough to make anyone give him a second glance. Ray, his mother’s Marine boyfriend, gave Bobby recruit-style haircuts with punk variations, but having a closely shaved scalp with a shock of bangs didn’t seem to bother Bobby. He just grinned when people asked about his hair.

As spring turned to summer that year, my enchantment with Bobby turned to concern. I got a hint that things weren’t right between Ray and Bobby’s mom, Kim. While lying next to the swimming pool near Kim, I noticed a fading bruise around her eye and some ugly purple marks on her neck.

Kim and I never said more than “Hi” to each other, so I didn’t ask where she got the black eye. After seeing the marks on her neck, it wasn’t necessary.

Summer wore on and I watched Ray teach Bobby to swim. Patiently and quietly, he got a clinging 7-year-old away from the pool’s edge and doing a sputtering crawl across the deep end. From my seat on the deck, I watched with admiration as he whispered in Bobby’s ear, unwrapped the boy’s arms from around his neck, and launched him toward the edge. I cheered when he made it from one side of the deep end to the other.

The contrast of those poolside memories has always troubled me. How could the man who patiently murmured “Relax, relax” as Bobby clung to him be responsible for Kim’s bruises?

But the bruises appeared again in September. In October, screaming accompanied the beatings, and neighbors took turns calling the police. Kim began telling neighbors she was afraid Ray would make Bobby “mean.” Bobby worshiped Ray the Marine, Ray the strong man.

At first, I felt sorry for her and angry at Ray. What kind of man beats a woman on Friday night and then walks around smiling at the neighbors Saturday morning as if nothing happened? Then I became angry at Kim. Why did she stay with him and let her son see her being abused? I knew my anger with her was misplaced, but all I could think about was a little boy lying in bed listening to the slaps and screams.

Even though the beatings seemed to be getting more frequent, Kim announced an impending marriage to Ray.

Then one weekend the violence seemed to come to a head. When the police came, I stopped the officer around the corner from the courtyard and asked what was being done for Bobby.

“This is going on all the time,” I said.

He was polite and concerned. This time it was different, he said. There was a new domestic violence law in the state that allowed them to arrest Ray without a complaint from Kim. Ray was being arrested, Kim was going to a battered-women’s shelter, and an aunt was taking Bobby until Kim got back on her feet.

That was Saturday afternoon.

Monday morning, Ray was back. Kim was back. Bobby was back. One happy family.

Two weeks later, Ray and Kim were married. A week after that, they moved back east to North Carolina. Ray had been transferred.

For weeks I thought about Bobby. I wished I’d been able to do something for him. Something to make things right, smooth the way, keep him from getting screwed up by witnessing such a sick relationship.

The only thing I’d been able to do during those months of turmoil was to ask him how he was doing and stop and talk to him now and then.

One morning, after a particularly noisy night, I found myself alone with him. We were both taking out the garbage.

“You know, Bobby, if things get too crazy at your house, you can come over to mine,” I said. “I mean, if things are going on and you get scared, you can come over to us. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking down at the pavement, his cheeks turning pink.

He threw his trash in the Dumpster and ran home. I felt helpless. What could I do? Did I say the wrong thing? Did I say too much? Not enough?

The afternoon before Bobby left for North Carolina, I had another chance to talk to him alone.

“You excited about moving, Bobby?”

“Yeah,” he said eagerly.

“Well, Bobby, you’re going to be a long way from home, around a lot of new people. If things start getting crazy again, you go tell someone. Your teacher at school or a friend or neighbor or someone. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” he said, his lip quivering.

“You’re a good boy, really sweet, and I don’t want you to get messed up. Don’t let it mess you up, OK?”

“Yeah.”

That was the last time I saw him, and I’ve wondered about him in the two years since. Will he get messed up by seeing his mother used as a punching bag by a 200-pound Marine?

The thought that really troubles me is Ray. At one time he was probably an eager little boy like Bobby, willing to please and trying to find his way. Maybe he was a sweet, energetic kid who watched his mother get beaten up by someone and learned that that’s the way to treat women.

Even more disturbing is the realization that Ray might turn the violence to Bobby. I’ll never know if Bobby makes it to manhood without any serious problems. I’ll never know if he inherits the legacy Kim and Ray are building for him and becomes a wife-beater himself. All I can do is hope and remember a wonderful 7-year-old with a weird haircut.