When one thinks of being robbed it’s natural to assume that an adult did it or was somehow involved. However, that’s not always true .
In 1978 we lived in Xenia, Ohio with our two children Doug, 9, and Sherry, 7 in what was considered a relatively nice neighborhood. Our part of town had nearly been destroyed by a tornado in 1974, reconstruction was still going on in many places, but many of the original folks chose not to return. Some sold their repaired homes dirt cheap which attracted a variety of folks that was missing before--single parent families.
After a trip to Dayton one Friday we returned home to find a mess in our living room. Muddy footprints (two pair) were all over our carpet and led into our son’s bedroom. Following them was heartbreaking. Doug’s eyes weren’t the only ones misty when we first saw his room. It was devoid of all of his favorite (and most expensive) toys plus his tall, green, plastic Dog, a penny bank that was nearly full, lay gutted on the floor. Further investigation revealed Sherry’s penny bank in her room also gutted but nothing else in the house was missing. A pane in the lower right side of our huge picture window was missing, the screen lay twisted on the porch. We called the police, who not only responded quickly, but followed the muddy prints straight to the homes of the two little boys responsible.
One little boy, Jay, lived with a younger brother and their divorced mother just two houses from us. He was ten, a grade ahead of Doug. Not only had Jay played with our two kids, he’d eaten meals with us too. On several occasions he (solo and with his three year old brother, Ray) knocked at the door near dinner time, said ‘I’m hungry’ and joined us for dinner.
He and Ray were out and about at all times in all sorts of weather. Their mother, Jaye, worked nights (though no one knew quite what she did). I thought she was a nurses’ aide, one neighbor heard she was a waitress, another claimed she was a bar maid while another thought she danced in a bar. Whatever, she slept during the day so we neighbors kept our eyes out for the boys knowing times were hard for them. A sitter arrived every night before she went to work but no one saw the sitter leave when Jaye came home but, then again, few knew exactly when Jaye came home. Her hours seemed to vary.
Many nights the older boy would walk up and down the sidewalks calling for Ray . . . knowing he was probably in someone’s house. Their mother would be out on occasions too, looking for one or the other of them. What a sight they made, her holding Ray, and Jay leaning against her in a warm embrace when they all found one another. She loved those boys.
Apparently the boy, Jaye, wanted money for something (our children’s banks were readily visible). It was only normal for him to be jealous of all the toys other kids had as it didn’t seem they had much of their own. Our children were taught to share but did not have to give their favorite toys away.
The other little boy was Jay’s best friend with circumstances that were similar though there was a father in that household. We didn’t know the second family at all and they soon moved away.
The police retrieved the toys, though some were broken, got our window repaired and our carpet cleaned. The money, however, being an ‘unknown sum in a penny bank’ was never returned as the boys claimed both were nearly empty and the money spent. We were asked NOT to press charges and agreed.
Jay, though he was a school bully, tugged at my heartstrings. He was a scraggly gentleman around me saying things like ‘please’, ‘may I come in’, ‘do you have any cookies to spare’. He reminded me of ‘the little rascals’ boys.
Often Jays’ little brother would wander the streets naked--no diaper or anything--in all sorts of weather. We neighbors took turns taking them in and watching them for a spell. Once Ray was walking down the middle of our street in a downpour wearing only a pair of boots. It was only by chance that I saw him but my immediate reaction was to grab a towel out, wrap him up and take him home. I rang the doorbell several times but their mother slept very soundly and it wasn’t in me to enter their house though their door was ajar. I pulled it shut, took Ray home, dried and then dressed him in some of Doug’s outgrown clothes. I even found shoes to fit him. Then we sat down to have lunch. Ray ate vigorously as if he’d not eaten in a while. I took him home again; again there was no answer.
As I was leaving, the garage door rose. Their mother, Jaye, thin as a reed and looking like an over-grown flower-child with long, straight blond hair, a flowery shirt and loose jeans, peeked out. “There he is,” she smiled. “Found his diaper in the hall and the front door open. Figured Ray wandered off somewhere for lunch but I was too tired to look for him.”
I handed him over to her. She’d told everyone that he was retarded and a handful. The truth was he didn’t talk . . . only pointed at things and grunted. No one knew if she’d had him tested but Ray was very immature for his age. “He can keep the clothes and shoes. Doug outgrew them a long time ago.”
“That’s sweet of you, honey.” She hugged me after putting Ray down. “You’re such a saint. Did you feed him?”
“He had a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, a banana and milk. Hope that’s okay.”
She laughed. “He eats better than me.”
Jaye made plaster-of-Paris pieces in her garage and appeared to be rather busy. Most of the traffic on our street seemed to be young folks, mostly male, and/or hippies who parked all over the place. They’d go to Jaye’s, buy one of her pieces and then amble back to their cars. She had a lot of repeat business but it never occurred to any of us that her work wasn’t meant to hang on the wall. They were unusually ugly--gargoyles, monstrous things, Aztec stuff, skeleton ashtrays, etc. Some of them were painted but most were sold ‘as is’--unfinished.
It might be said that we neighbors should have turned Jaye in for child neglect. We had a group of us who met regularly and we all decided to help her out. I even bought gifts for Ray and Jaye at Christmas and for their birthdays. We would put them on the porch, ring the doorbell and run out of sight. They seemed to know who did what for them and would say ‘thank you’ in a round about way.
Our neighborhood reasoning was that we didn’t trust Children’s Services whatsoever. Before Jaye moved in we’d had several incidents that soured our opinions of that agency.
The first incident involved an unpopular black couple (one of only two in our area). James and Jennifer Johnson were both employed, kept their place spotless, but everyone was afraid of James. He was big, broad-shouldered and mean! Four letter words spewed constantly out of his mouth . . . and he was most inhospitable.
His wife, Jennifer, was the exact opposite but one could see that she’d never stand up to James. We suspected that she was abused. At any rate she had a niece, sixteen, who bore a child out of wedlock. Jennifer, barren, dearly wanted that newborn little girl and constantly made complaints to Children’s Services about ‘slights’ her niece made. In the end, Children’s Services finally placed the child, Elisha, in their care. She was then 2 1/2 years old but not potty trained.
James, easily annoyed as it was, didn’t seem to take to the child very well. With the addition of Elisha in their household, their arguments grew more frequent and more violent. Jennifer would often hide in the house for days while her bruises and black-eyes healed. You’d think Children’s Services would’ve checked them out better but none of the neighbors had been interviewed.
Six months down the road on a fine, sunny day, James was washing his car . . . again . . . and Elisha was playing in their front yard. She was a friendly little girl, always smiling. She was so busy playing that she peed her sun suit. A lot of three year olds do that on occasion but James was furious! He stormed at her, hose still in hand but with the water off, and belted her with it--not just once but repeatedly.
Everyone was out enjoying the day. Alarmed, those living around the Johnson’s froze, gaped and stood watching . . . too scared of the man to react, intervene. James, suddenly aware of their audience, thrust the hose down, grabbed Elisha up by one arm, opened the front door and tossed her into the house. Jennifer, apparently watching too, moved aside to keep from being hit. James swept his fury inside. The neighbors claim they heard Elisha being thrown up against the walls in the house and Jennifer screaming, “Oh, God”.
Hours later, after Jennifer bathed Elisha, an ambulance showed up in front of their house. James had called 911, told them the child collapsed after playing outside in the heat all day, seemingly forgetting what he’d done. Elisha laid in a coma for several days before she died. The child’s autopsy revealed numerous injuries--old and new--that were inflicted over a period of time. James and Jennifer were both charged and both sent to prison.
On the heels of that incident one of our neighbors saw another neighbor, pregnant, spank her three year old while they were outside. The witness called Children’s Services who put the pregnant mother through the wringers. That three year old was using four letter words, had called her mother a vile name and was appropriately corrected. However, that couple was so intimidated by Children’s Services they eventually moved away because they could no longer discipline their children without fear of losing them.
So we made exceptions for Jaye and her boys . . . maybe too many. She didn’t receive child support from the father of either boy, she was working, trying to provide for them. Who would separate a mother from her children if she was doing her best?
However, Jaye soon tried got careless. The manner in which the children were left to fend for themselves concerned all of us. We could only do so much.
Our neighbors, the Thompsons, lived in the house between us and Jaye. They were devout Christians with three biological children who also were foster parents for handicapped infants. Their master bedroom was on Jaye’s side and Jaye’s bedroom was across from them.
One night the Thompson’s woke up to music, giggling, and a ruckus outside. They peeked out their bedroom window to see Jaye and her beau-of-the-moment prancing around naked on the lawn! They called the police!
Those at Jaye’s house--there were several couples--were all high on drugs. The police found folks in the garage stuffing drugs inside the plaster pieces. Jaye wasn’t one of them but was arrested anyway.
The boys, taken into custody, were supposed to be given to their dads . . . but they only found one. He didn’t want anything to do with Ray (let alone Jay) so they went to foster homes. Jaye got out on bail for a while, got the boys back, then sold something to an uncover cop and went to jail again. Something got her off of that charge and they were a family again.
Jay came over to ask if he could pick a bouquet of flowers for his mother for Mother’s Day. How could I refuse? I didn’t, in fact I wrapped them for him. It was a sweet thing for the little boy to do.
The one night, in the darkness, Jaye and her boys packed everything up and moved. They’d fallen behind in their house payments, their house was reprocessed, sold and life went on again in our neighborhood. What happened to those children?
Elisha died, Jay and Ray were endangered by their mother’s lifestyle. It made me wonder what would I do to save a child? What is the price of intervention? Could ‘I’ make a difference? Would I be willing to stay the course?
In retrospect the burglary may have been a cry for help that went unheard--nothing good came of it. What we lost could and was replaced. Those boys were robbed of their innocence just as Elisha was robbed of life. Children are not a ‘given’ but they are ‘gifts’ to cherish. They learn what they live and indifference to their plights robs mankind of good people and gives us hardened, uncaring citizens who don’t want to get involved . . . like the people who stood at the window watching when my only son was murdered.
So~if you need me~let me know. There’s enough empty souls as it is.
This is a good story, it is rare to find a crime tale that scares the shit out of someone. There is one I wrote here which is a work of non-fiction titled "Oct 13, 1993." The story is about slain cab driver which was done in by a friend of mine -- the story comes off from the telling it to the cab driver friend of his who was supposed to take that call that night.
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