In parts 1 and 2, I reluctantly agreed to take on the challenge of a fourth foster son with multiple behavior issues. Things immediately went sour as Max alienated the other three boys. I asked them to give him a chance.
* * *
Doug, Chris and Buzzy, who usually liked everybody, didn’t like Max. And Max apparently didn’t like anybody. Our home, which had been such a happy place up to two hours ago, was about to become a war zone, and the three boys wanted him out. It wasn’t hard to understand. Max was rude, arrogant, belligerent and bossy. He had just tried to claim Doug’s lower bunk, and Doug was livid. Ever the optimist, I still had hopes that it could work.
“Doug,” I said, “Maybe you can give Max a hand making up the upper bunk.”
“I don’t need his help.” Max spit defiance at us both.
“That’s fine. You’re probably a pretty good bed maker. Doug, you can go ahead and get cleaned up to go out. Max, you already look good enough.”
I went to the other bedroom where Chris and Buzzy were waiting. “You see what he’s like, Dad?”
“I understand completely, guys, but try to understand that this is a kid who’s been in four foster homes. He feels as though he doesn’t belong anywhere.”
“But he hates us!”
“He hates himself more,” I said.
Things at the pizza parlor didn’t go any better. Max put a couple of slices on his little plastic plate and went to another table to sit by himself. Chris (we call him our peacemaker) wasn’t having any more of this. “I’m gonna go over there and tell that dude what I think.”
Before I could stop him, he stalked over to Max’s table and said, his voice raised, “We want to be your friends, and if you don’t want that, then I’m sorry. But it’s the best we can do!” It was a stunning proclamation. I was tremendously, proud of him for it. I’d like to say that it worked and that Max came back to our table, hat in hand. But he didn’t. He sat alone until it was time to leave. His scorn was obvious.
Back home, Max struggled with his bed, continuing to refuse help from anyone. He went to bed with his clothes on, facing the wall. I told him goodnight. No response. His bed making efforts had been unsuccessful. He had just thrown his comforter over himself.
After lights out, I read the anecdotal records Marsha had gotten her hands on. If I hadn’t already seen a lot of it firsthand, I would hardly have believed what I was reading. Max’s most recent foster mother had written meticulous notes, describing Max as “an angry, vicious boy whose sole purpose in life is to make the lives of those around him miserable.”
I found myself wondering why Marsha would consider our home as a haven for Max. Still, he was here, I had made a commitment to try, and I allowed myself at least a small measure of optimism. Tomorrow, I would devote much of the day to him. But I was troubled. Do I have the right to subject three kids, all making positive growth and change, to a setback like Max? Where is my greatest responsibility? I slept badly.
The next day, as we went through our morning ballet, Max seemed oblivious to the routine. He ignored the boys and they ignored him. Their overture had been made, and apparently rejected. He waited in the living room as they made their final preparations to leave for school.
And then, a very loud and angry cry from Doug’s room. “Aw, what the hell? Aw, crap!” He let go a stream of expletives that would have embarrassed a longshoreman.
I hurried to the room. So did Chris and Buzzy. Doug was standing there shaking with rage, his arms stiff, his fists clenched. “That son-of-a-bitch pissed in my backpack!”
How do you diffuse a situation like this 10 minutes before we have to get in the car and go to school? Doug was off the Richter scale. Chris said, “Man, this is the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
Max was in the living room. I had to stem the bleeding quickly and efficiently or we were going to have World War III. “All of you stay here,” I said to the three. “All of us together. Leave Max alone right now, no matter what you’d like to do to him Doug, take deep breaths and get calm. I’m sorry we took him. I’ll do something about it as soon as I get back from taking you to school. But right now we have a problem.”
“Doug can share my backpack,” said Chris.
“But my books and everything are ruined.” Tears and frustration laced his voice.
“Doug, take your backpack out on the deck and dump everything out of it,” I said. “See what’s wet and what’s dry.”
He did so. “Some of the stuff in the bottom is OK.”
“All right, now put what’s dry in Chris’s backpack. Chris, that was great of you to help.”
“So are you gonna get rid of him?” asked Buzzy.
It looks like I have to, doesn’t it? I’ll try to do what’s right for all of us. But right now, please follow my instructions. Do exactly as I say. Come out to the living room. Do not talk to Max. And now, everyone get in the car. Do not talk to each other.”
Robin C. Harris, an 18-year resident of Lake County, is the author of “Journeys out of Darkness, Adventures in Foster Care.” A retired educator, he is a substitute teacher for Lake County schools and has recently completed two works of fiction for children and teens. He is available for tutoring in first through eighth grades. Harris can be contacted at harris.tke@att.net.
