Freezing People is (Not) Easy (2 page)

Chapter 1

Growing Up Bob Nelson

I was born fatherless in 1936.
During my childhood, my mom spent her time drinking, smoking Lucky Strike cigarettes one after another, or passed out from the previous night at her local bar hangout.

When I was five, my mom married a small-time Boston mobster, John “Fats” Buccelli. He was impeccably dressed, in specially tailored suits to handle his four-hundred-pound girth, and well-groomed, right down to the part in the middle of his hair. With his arrival and his subsequent departures to jail, my childhood fluctuated between the extremes of feast and famine.

John was tough and demanding, but he had one redeeming quality. He seemed to genuinely care about me, which is more than my mom could manage at the time. Early one morning when I was six years old, I heard a loud knock at the door. Three men with badges stood outside. John was under arrest for the armed robberies of several liquor stores. He was dubbed the “Lady in Red Bandit” for his choice of disguise while committing his crimes. But with his size, he wasn't hard to pick from a lineup.

The cops treated him well, perhaps because of his mob ties, and allowed him to make me some scrambled eggs before they took him away. John asked if he could write a note to my mom, who was passed out from a typical night of drinking, and he gave me a big hug before he was handcuffed. I was so sad that I couldn't eat those eggs.

I spent the next four years being shuffled from one dump to another and often left for weeks with strangers. Sometime after my little brother was born, Mom worked out a deal with her mom, Grandma Edith.

Grandma was a compact woman at five feet two inches and 150 pounds. Her hair was steel gray, and she had a heart to match. She was cheap too. Often she walked several miles into town to save ten cents on a loaf of two-day-old bread.

My baby brother, Little John, and I meant nothing more to her than the weekly twenty dollars she received to “care” for us. We spent the next two years forced to sit in a dirty, vomit-green overstuffed chair every day, all day; school wasn't a possibility. We couldn't even talk or go to the bathroom unless the witch gave us permission. Our only source of entertainment was to count the elevated trains that tore by the front window of the second-story apartment as we sat planted in our prison chair. On most days there were forty-seven trains from the morning until I was sent to bed at dusk.

One day the witch had been in a particularly bitchy mood, and Little John had pissed his pants because he was afraid to ask for permission to get off the chair. Grandma went into a rage and grabbed her wooden swatting spoon. She charged at John, swinging away.

I jumped out of my chair and got between them to shield him. My speed and audacity took her by surprise and threw her off balance. Her shock quickly turned to fiery wrath, and she reared back to strike me. Instead of putting my hands up in the defensive posture she had come to expect, I raised my little fists. My heart was beating frightfully fast, but I showed no fear.

I screamed at her, “Get away! Get away or I'll kill you, I swear!”

I was expecting at that moment for her spoon to collide with my head, but I had two years of pent-up energy and was prepared for battle. Instead she took several steps back and lowered her spoon-brandishing arm to her side. Her look softened a little as though she had expected a confrontation to happen someday. I was surprised, relieved, and emboldened at the same time. She said quietly, “Okay, Bobbie. I won't punish you or John anymore; I promise.”

A week later she offered in a sweet tone to take John and me to play in Blackstone Park in the south end of Boston. In two years, she had never allowed us outside to play, let alone brought us anywhere other than to harass my mom at work.

The witch dropped Little John and me off at the Blackstone fountain pool. Regardless of her motive, I felt free. We laughed and splashed and chased each other. For a while we were just a couple of ordinary kids. When she returned at lunchtime, she set us on a park bench and told us to stay put until she came back.

We had become so accustomed to sitting in that damn vomity chair all day that we weren't concerned as the hours passed. When evening came, I realized she wasn't returning for us. I took Little John by the hand, and we walked for several miles in the cold to Grandma's small apartment. I held on tight to John, trying to ignore his chattering teeth.

When we arrived, I knocked on the door for a long time. We called for her, but the apartment remained silent and the door locked. Eventually the neighbor lady came out and said, “My goodness! What are you two boys doing here? Your grandma moved out today.”

I knew it! I knew it!
The old bag skipped out on us . . . hooray! With that information, I happily put my exhausted little brother on my shoulders and walked the three miles to my mom's work.

When I told Mom what Grandma had done, she sank down to the dirty bar floor, hugged us, and cried with shame. She left work early and took John and me home to her little one-room flat. It had a tiny kitchen, where she put a blanket down on the floor for John and me to sleep on.

About a month after we moved in with her, my mom told Little John and me that we had to go see someone who could help us. I made her promise it was not Grandma Witch, and she assured me it wasn't.

We took a long bus ride and arrived at a huge concrete office complex. Inside we met a well-dressed man. He took us into his office, which was small but neat. They discussed the abuse Little John and I had suffered while living with our grandmother. My mom told the man that she was sick, battling with the bottle, and had very little money. I was expecting this kind gentleman, who listened carefully to my mother, to give her some paperwork for government assistance. When he finally spoke, his response stunned and angered me.

“You can leave both of them with us. We'll take good care of them.”

I felt betrayed. I spun around, looked at her in disbelief, and screamed, “You're giving us away, you bitch? You're giving us away? I hate you! I HATE you!”

I was upsetting her, but I didn't care. She wasn't supposed to send us away again. She rose from her chair, her telltale twitching indicating her need for liquid courage. I followed her to the door, hollering “I hate you!” as she raced through the lobby. I watched as she disappeared in the pedestrian traffic. Without so much as a good-bye hug, she was gone.

When I returned to the office, Little John was scrunched up in his chair crying. I felt terrible for him. I felt terrible for both of us. The man sat quietly at his desk and waited for me to stop crying.

Once I was calm and ready to listen, he explained in a soothing tone, “Your mother is incapable of properly caring for you right now. Bringing you to us was the best she could do. I've assigned you to a really nice lady who will find you a nice foster home.” He stopped until he met my gaze. “I know it's difficult, but this is only temporary. As soon as your mother is back on her feet, you'll go back to her.”

About an hour later an attractive lady came in and introduced herself as Miss Jane. She told us she was going to be our case worker and friend, and no one would hurt us again. We liked her and talked for hours.

That man had been nice. Miss Jane was nice. They were all nice, but it made me feel worse that my family was so nasty and neglectful. I held my little brother that entire night, battling feelings I was far too young to describe.

We drove around for the next four days, examined by one foster family after another. As I feared, no one wanted two boys. Miss Jane tried her best, turning down several opportunities for John and me separately. At the end of the third night, she told me we were running out of options, and she was probably going to have to backtrack and place us in separate homes, at least temporarily. I hated that prospect, but I understood. We had to accept that we couldn't be together.

On the fourth day we drove up to a large house in the middle of a small farm. We passed several cows, chicken cages, and countless rows of sprouting vegetables. A gray-haired woman came out to greet us. She looked just like Grandma Witch, and I felt a moment of panic, but this wasn't Grandma. She had kind eyes and was smiling, something I had never seen the witch do.

Miss Jane climbed out of the car and talked to the lady, Mrs. Brown, about Little John and me. I sat in the backseat and listened, squeezing my little brother's hand tight.

I liked this farm and this lady and didn't want any more disappointments, so I hatched a plan. As the two women approached the car, I whispered to John to hang on to me and not let go—no matter what. Miss Jane opened the door and saw John and I huddled together, clutching each other like Siamese twins facing the scalpel. Miss Jane tried to cajole me out of the car, but I wouldn't budge. Mrs. Brown opened the door on John's side of the car; they tried to physically separate us, but I braced myself against the seat, drew John closer, and held on tighter. We began to cry.

Frustrated, the women backed out of the car and regrouped. I heard Miss Jane apologizing for our behavior, sounding out of breath. They walked out of earshot and talked. After about ten minutes (which felt like an hour), they returned to the car. John and I steeled ourselves against another attempt to separate us, but Miss Jane only stood back and told us to come out . . . both of us.

John and I scooted out the opposite side of the car from where the ladies stood, still clutching each other, just in case this was a trick. Keeping her distance, Miss Jane explained that we could both stay, but only for a couple weeks. In the meantime we would have to work in the gardens and share a bed. There were fourteen other boys here; two of them would have to bunk together to make room.

John and I didn't hear anything past “You can both stay.” We were too busy cheering, jumping, and running around in little circles. Several kids working in the garden stood up and watched the spectacle. We didn't care. We got to be together, and that was reason to celebrate!

Our two-week visit became a two-year stay. Mrs. Brown took a real liking to us. We worked hard at our many chores, but I didn't care after our two years of sitting. We played hard too. My favorite place was a huge pond on the property with fish, turtles, and frogs. I felt like Huck Finn on a great adventure. There was always something to do, something to be explored.

One day Mrs. Brown called Little John and me down to the foyer. Some barely perceptible hitch in her voice made me apprehensive—maybe it was the man from the foster agency taking us away, or worse, taking only one of us. I had long feared such a day would come. As I walked down the stairs, I saw a man spilling over the big couch in the living room, his back to us. He was a big man in a shiny pinstriped suit. When I recognized him, I jumped the rest of the stairs in a single leap, leaving my confused brother behind.

It was Big John, our dad! He hadn't forgotten us after all! I tore into the living room and dove into his arms. I was so overwhelmed; tears of joy ran down my face and dampened the soft fabric of his coat. He hugged me hard, and I inhaled his familiar aftershave. I could have stayed in this man's arms forever, but he eventually broke the embrace. I stayed close, not wanting to let go, but his attention was no longer focused on me. He sat perfectly still, staring forward. I followed his eyes and noticed Little John standing there, half hidden behind the wall. The two had locked eyes.

This was the first meeting between father and son. A big smile slowly formed on our dad's face. Little John just looked down at his worn shoes. Big John reached out, snatched his son into his arms, and held him for a long time. I felt a twinge of jealousy, but only for a moment. This man was, after all, his father too.

Within an hour, we were packed. I choked back some tears saying good-bye to Mrs. Brown. She had been so good to John and me, and we loved her for that. I gave her a big hug and ended that bittersweet chapter of my life.

John had rented a small cottage at a lakefront resort just outside Boston. When we arrived, our mom was waiting for us. She got down on her knees, swept Little John and me into her arms, and wept. Seeing her brought back cruel memories of all the times she gave us away, but I was still happy we were together as a family.

The initial bliss of our reunion didn't last long. Big John and Mom fought constantly about her drinking or his inability to earn an honest living. Within a year he got caught for bookmaking and loan-sharking and got his giant butt thrown back in jail.

I was twelve years old now and learning how to survive on the streets. This was a critical juncture in my life; I didn't want to go down the same path as my dad. Jail was not for me. We were broke, and often a twenty-five-cent package of bologna was dinner. I found ways to earn money and learned to be resourceful.

A group of neighborhood boys hung around a depot where big trucks offloaded fresh produce, and they would scoop up the fruit spillage for sale elsewhere. There wasn't any chance to move into this hustle—too many boys already. But I noticed several other truckers offloading at this depot, and most of them received little notice. The ones that caught my attention were the flower trucks. They spilled many perfectly good flowers that usually were swept up and tossed into large garbage bins.

I began surreptitiously picking up the flowers, trying not to attract attention. I didn't want my competition to copy my idea. Then I was off to the bars. I polished a quick spiel, pitching “Flowers! Buy a beautiful flower for your pretty girl!”

I was stunned at the instant success. This was fun, easy, and quite profitable. It provided real money that my mom and I used to eat and pay bills. Little John had been shipped off to family.

I was thirteen when Big John got out of jail and our family was reunited again. I was a different person than when he had left: a very seasoned young man, far from the typically sheltered American kid. Through hard work, I had taken care of myself and my mother. I was proud that I had succeeded as a kid where my parents had failed. While I had great affection for Big John, I had little respect for him.