September 1981

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“Hey, Rich. Come talk to me.”

Rich turned, a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach, and faced Lester, the director of this boys’ home. He’d lived here since he was four years old, had never had anyone even consider adopting him, so he knew the score. Today was his eighteenth birthday. He was aging out of the system. And out of the only home he’d ever known.

He hefted the black sack in his hands. “Taking the trash out, Lester.”

“Good man. After that, then. I’ll be in my office.”

His office. Yeah. Well, it wasn’t a surprise. He’d hoped for a reprieve, but he hadn’t really expected one.

So he went out back and tossed the bag in the dumpster, then went to meet his fate.

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~oOo~

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Lester Darville wasn’t the only director the St. Ignatius Home for Boys had had in Rich’s nearly fourteen years as a resident, but he was one of the better ones. He didn’t try to be the boys’ buddy, and he didn’t act like a prison warden. He got a lot closer to ‘dad’ territory (as far as Rich could tell; he didn’t remember what having a father was actually like) than the others.

They’d had a couple of shitty directors over the years, but those hadn’t lasted long, fortunately. For the most part, the people who worked at Iggy’s were decent. Some were priests or brothers or some other kind of Catholic thing, but others, like Lester, were what they called ‘lay staff.’ Despite the name of a saint on the building and the crucifixes on walls in every room, religion wasn’t shoved down the boys’ throats. They had grace at mealtimes and mandatory Mass on Sundays and holy days, but that wasn’t so bad.

The bedrooms weren’t overcrowded, just two boys to each, and now there was MTV in the rec room. Some of the boys were assholes, but boys like Rich kept the assholes under control, for the most part. Overall, Iggy’s wasn’t a bad place to live. He knew it could be worse. From boys who’d come in from other places, group homes and family placements alike, Rich had heard that there was a lot worse out there.

He’d known that the end was coming. As a ward of the state, he was only somebody else’s responsibility until the day of his eighteenth birthday or when he graduated high school, whichever came later. Because he lived in a home like this, with a waiting list, he was out the door that very day. He’d known that. But it still hurt to sit here in Lester’s office and literally be given his walking papers.

Lester had pushed him to think about jobs or college, and had talked to him about how to find an apartment. Rich’s response had been to spend all his free time at the boxing gym, in the ring or hanging out with the older fighters. He had a little job there, barely part-time and only minimum wage, but it had been enough to keep him in tape and gloves, and the pros gave him pointers and sparred with him for free.

The things Lester wanted him to think about were too big, too nebulous, too scary. He had no idea how to make it on his own, and he felt small and lost when he tried to think about it. Like life was about to grab him by the neck and fling him into space, with no air or gravity, no control of anything.

But in the ring, he was in control. Life made sense inside the ropes, when everything boiled down to one simple imperative: Be better than the other guy. Strong, smarter, tougher. Just better. Be the one still standing.

He knew what he wanted in life. He wanted to pull into his own driveway and see the lights on in his own house. He wanted to walk in the front door and smell supper in the oven. He wanted a beautiful woman to come to him and wrap herself around him while she asked about his day. He wanted kids playing in the back yard with their dog. He’d only ever seen a life like that on television, but he knew it was the way things were supposed to be.

That life would not come from a job at a burger joint and a basement one-bedroom shared with five other people, which was the best thing he could hope for next, and he couldn’t understand how to get from one to the other.

So he went to the ring, where being his best was enough, and when it wasn’t, the path to get better was clear: Work harder. Sweat more. Keep going.

As he sat down beside Lester’s desk, what Rich wanted was simply to be allowed to stay right where he was, at least until he could understand what his next step should be.

“So, son. You know what happens now.”

Rich swallowed so his voice wouldn’t shake. “I was thinking...could I stay on if I worked here? Just, like, cleaning up or something like that? You wouldn’t have to pay me—just let me stay.”

Lester shook his head. “Only counselors live on the premises, Rich. And you know we need the bed.” He pushed a manila envelope across his desk. “There’s an address in there for a shelter we work with. You’ve got a bed there for three nights. After that, if you need to stay longer, you’ll have to work that out with them yourself. There are a couple of names of people in the parish who’ll take in a boarder. There’s also five twenty-dollar bills in there, to get you fed while you’re looking for a job and a place. And a letter of reference.” He bent down and lifted a paper grocery sack, its top folded neatly over. “And our birthday gift to you: brand new set of good clothes for job interviews—khakis, Oxford shirt, shoes, belt, the works. Even a tie. Keep these nice.”

“Lester...” his voice shook, and the name broke in two.

“I know, Rich. I came up through the system, too, remember. Aged-out just like this. It’s hard. But I got through it, and you will, too. You’re strong, and you’re smart. If you apply yourself, you’ll do just fine. Only one way to move through this world, right?”

Rich nodded, but only to acknowledge Lester’s favorite saying, not his faith in it.

“Say it with me, son.”

“Head down, shoulder to the day.” They said it together, but Lester’s voice far overpowered his own.

Lester stood and held out his hand. “Go on up and pack your things, say your goodbyes. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s better if it’s quick. Like pulling off a Band-Aid.”

Rich stood tall and shook the director’s hand. Lester Darville was the closest thing he had to a father, the closest thing he could remember ever having. “I just want a family,” he said as they dropped their hands.

“Iggy’s never was that for you, Rich. We do what we can, but we can’t be that. You’re gonna have to make a family for yourself. And when you do, you hold it close and keep it safe like a precious gift. You hear?”

He heard. “Yes, sir.”