Misunderstood Read online

  Misunderstood

  HEALING JASON SUTTER

  JAY SHERFEY

  iUniverse, Inc.

  Bloomington

  Misunderstood: Healing Jason Sutter

  Copyright © 2009, 2011 by Jay Sherfey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4620-5962-1 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4620-5964-5 (hc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4620-5963-8 (e)

  Printed in the United States of America

  iUniverse rev. date: 12/28/2011

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  With heartfelt gratitude, I want to thank,

  – My wife, Claudia, my daughter, Kirstin, and my son, John for the alone-time I needed to finish this work.

  – My sister, Sara, who offered valuable feedback.

  – My coworkers who graciously volunteered to read an early draft and offer guidance.

  – My friends at restaurants where most of the writing was done who read and offered advice.

  – The good people at iUniverse who pleasantly drove me to make the final revisions. Their insistance made the book better.

  – My writing mentor, Fran Bellerive, who has been nudging, cajoling, guiding and editing this story from the beginning. I could not have made it without her.

  Prologue

  November, 1960

  Hang dog tired, Jason Sutter fell into the rickety chair next to his mother. He rested his head on her shoulder. He didn’t think he could get up again. His legs felt sore and stiff. This was the fourth house in the last two days. He had been a good soldier. His father, Robert, told him to buck up, not complain, and do anything he was asked. It had been hard not to whine about being hungry and tired; he managed. It would have helped, he thought, if they told me what was going on. He figured they were on the run but from whom or what he had no idea.

  Elizabeth, his mother, reached over and caressed his cheek. He loved the feel of her soft hand on his face. His eyes scanned the room. This place was as dirty and old as the last. The faded wallpaper hung down in places. The only furniture was the scarred table and the beat up old chairs on which they sat. The place smelled funny too, like when something in the refrigerator goes bad.

  Jason worried about his father. He stood by the door with his eyes closed. His head moved swiftly like a deer whose ears chased the elusive sound of danger. In the last week Jason watched as the dark circles and deep lines grew around his eyes and over his cheeks. He no longer walked upright but staggered forward like he suffered under a heavy load. He looked real sick. His mother had not changed. Jason thought that his father gave up part of himself to keep his mom strong.

  In a corner stood two people Jason knew well, Sarah Stiles and her son Seth. He could not remember a time when they were not around. Sarah was the picture of a Midwestern, no nonsense grandmother with her gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, steady and reliable in any task. Seth her son stood strong, a barrel with arms and legs and a sharp intellect. Jason grinned. He remembered Seth as someone who could make him laugh. The Stiles waited grimly; they watched his father.

  His mother dropped her hand from his cheek, but Jason caught it in his. He sat up, held her hand in his lap, and looked up into her sad eyes.

  “Mom?” he asked in a whisper.

  “This place is no longer safe.” Jason barely recognized his father’s weary voice. “We do not have much time.”

  Jason leaned forward to see his father limp to the table. The set of his jaw, the certainty in his eyes, told Jason that something bad was about to happen. He looked from one parent to the other for comfort.

  “It’s the only way,” stuttered Robert Sutter. He did not look at his son but turned to Sarah Stiles. Jason felt his despair.

  “Are you ready to do what must be done?”

  “Yes,” said Sarah. She and Seth nodded. “We know what to do.”

  Jason watched his father caress his mom’s shoulder. He leaned down to whisper gently in her ear.

  “Now, Beth.” He stumbled back a few steps.

  Jason questioned his mother when she pulled her hand from his grasp; she turned to him and coaxed him to face her so that their knees touched. Her soft, warm hands caressed his cheeks.

  Jason smiled. He followed a single tear that escaped the corner of his mother’s eye.

  “Mom?” he asked again with his thoughts. When his mother’s caress became a hard clamp on his head, he knew something was wrong. Then…

  Chapter 1

  December, 1962

  A car rolled down the tree lined street in Franklin Chase, a bedroom community south of Philadelphia. Street lights glowed in the early evening hours beneath a winter darkened sky. Wreaths hung on front doors. Strings of multi-colored lights outlined homes. Occasional plastic Santas, sleighs, and reindeer dashed across front lawns. The Ford pulled to the curb of a large Victorian house shrouded in darkness. Its rumbling engine stopped. Silence took back the neighborhood.

  Will Grossman shivered in his old Fairlane. He doubted he would get his few dollars back for food and gas. The evening grew darker, colder. Windows fogged, as winter crept in through cracked weather stripping. Frustrated, he pounded the steering wheel.

  “And on the Friday before Christmas, for Christ sakes!” The steering wheel took another blow. Will was not a giving man. Tonight’s overtime for the Department of Social Services better pay off with an IOU or two at the office. After a deep breath, he calmed. He reached up, turned the rearview mirror, and examined his teeth. He removed a black leather glove and ran a forefinger over his incisors. A winning smile never hurt, he thought. Affable and pleasant looking with a loud laugh Will lurched through life glad-handing all the right people. He grinned ear to ear through whatever abuse to get ahead. Satisfied, Will pushed the mi
rror back. The police cruiser headlights lit the fogged rear windshield.

  “Let’s get this over with.” He pulled up his coat collar and put on his glove. He grabbed his notebook and an overstuffed grocery bag, and got out to greet the officers. One sat behind the wheel, the other, out of the car, restrained a boy struggling to break free.

  “Thanks for bringing him over,” said Will to the policeman. “I appreciate it.” The officer nodded; the child thrashed against the policeman’s hold.

  Will watched the boy with a modicum of sympathy. His deliveries, as he saw them, included troubled kids, mentally ill adults, drunks, and drug addicts in withdrawal. To Will their pitiful souls were not worth much. Before him on the sidewalk squirmed another one. Without further delay he turned and headed toward the house.

  After taking the steps two at a time, Will rapped the tarnished brass knocker twice. Coming up the steps, the officer dragged the boy onto the porch. A weak light spilled out, as the door opened.

  “Well, Lydia, here he is.” Will stepped out of the dark, cold evening with a holiday smile. He handed Lydia Dubois the paper bag with clothes and medicine. Lydia frowned. “He got his last dose about an hour ago. I expect he will be asleep in a bit.” Will removed his gloves and unbuttoned his wool overcoat. The boy fought the officer’s grasp, as they stood inside the door.

  “What’s he taking, Will?” Lydia rummaged through the bag, looking for the pill bottles. Her mousy brown hair tied back in a long pony tail highlighted the harsh angles of her face. When she managed a smile, it looked painful.

  “Chlor something or other. Check the label. It’s something new. They told me he’s on a pretty high dose.”

  Slowly, the boy gave up the struggle. The medication worked its magic. He slumped against the officer.

  “My, my,” said Lydia struck by the quick change. “If you would lay him down on the sofa right over there, officer, I would be grateful.” The policeman gently cradled the boy and set him on the cushions. He excused himself, saying something about other duties, and closed the door as he went.

  “OK, Will, how bad?” Lydia eyed him suspiciously, wary of being used with no potential gain. Lydia, her husband Frank, and Will worked as a team to do what appeared to be the right thing. In reality they skimmed money from the state allowances intended for their foster children’s necessities. When the kids needed less medication, they worked every angle to keep the prescriptions at the higher levels and sold the excess.

  “You know Frank and I can handle only so much.” Eleven foster children lived in the huge, run down Victorian house.

  “I won’t lie to you.” He stared across the room at the unconscious child. “He’s a bad case.” Will paused; he scratched his chin. “If there’d been any beds in the state ward, I would’ve taken him there. There’ll be no backin’ off on meds for a long time.”

  “So, we’re the Social Service’s saviors, their only hope and last resort?” Lydia grinned. Will nodded and gave a thumb’s up. “Well then, will the Department pony up more money to help out?” Lydia’s mouth twitched.

  “I knew you’d ask.” Will smiled. “Started the paperwork before we picked up the boy. Give it a few weeks and I’ll know what can be done. My bosses, thanks to me, are well aware of the difficult situation. They owe you for this one. In the meantime, don’t hesitate to use the emergency room or the cops if you need them. Be sure to document everything. His name’s Jason Sutter. He’s thirteen years old. We have no records of any family. Looks like no one will be asking about him.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Frank and Lydia Dubois were well matched. Both graduated from the foster care system they now gamed. They took care of themselves first. No child in their care suffered injuries or abuse. Bad things happening cut into their cash flow.

  Lydia went over to the couch and looked down on the boy. She could not tell whether he had black or brown hair; it was cut too close to the scalp. Clothes several sizes too big, he struck her as small for his age, but angelic, asleep in her living room.

  “It may take some time, but this little angel will pay off, I’m sure.”

  * * *

  After a month Frank Dubois had had enough. He glared at Lydia. They stood at either side of Jason’s bedroom door like police ready to rush a criminal hideout.

  “Have you been holding back on the pills again?” accused Frank. They heard Jason stomp around in the room, screaming.

  “I did what we always do with the kids’ pills,” said Lydia, furious. She fixed her green eyes on Frank and smiled. He shivered at the pure malignancy of her expression. A hard slam against the door startled Frank.

  “Will warned us about backing off too soon.” Frank mumbled; he withered under Lydia’s grotesque grin.

  “Yeah, well, Will’s not around to consult.” Lydia produced the key and prepared to go in. “So, just shut up about the meds and get your butt in gear.” She paused. Maybe she had pushed the experiment too far. She could not afford to alienate Frank. “OK. From now on, I’ll give ’em his full dose.” Frank nodded.

  Lydia unlocked the door. Frank went first. Jason stood on his bed and pounded the wall with his fists. Frank pulled the boy’s legs out from under him. The boy collapsed on the bed. Frank fell across his chest. Lydia dove on his legs.

  “Give me his pills,” hissed Frank through gritted teeth. Controlling the boy took all his effort. One of Jason’s arms lay trapped beneath Frank’s body. The other Frank held firmly in one hand; he held out his free hand. Lydia reached into her dress pocket and slapped the pills into his palm.

  “Hey, kid!” yelled Frank. He smacked Jason’s cheek several times harder each time to get his attention. His eyes focused; his mouth opened to speak. Frank quickly forced the pills into his mouth, pushed his chin up, and clamped the boy’s mouth shut. The child’s eyes stared frantic; he arched his back. Finally, he swallowed and lay still.

  “Thought he was about to choke for a minute there.” Frank relaxed. In that instant an arm pulled free; a clenched fist punched Frank in the face. “Damn it!” He grabbed the arm and doubled his effort to restrain the boy. Blood dripped from his nose onto his shirt.

  “I want this psycho the hell out of here!” screamed Frank. “I’m gonna lose my job if I have to keep running home like this!” His manager at the car parts warehouse had started to notice his long lunches or sudden absences. Sweat rolled off his forehead into his large, owl-like eyes. It stung, making him angrier. He moved his gangly body for better leverage and held Jason’s arms tighter.

  “Don’t be hasty,” said Lydia. “Give it more time. I see a gold mine here.” A leg almost escaped from beneath her. She threw her weight forward, regaining control. “We have to manage!”

  “No more experiments!” Frank came across as comical to Lydia with blood flowing from his nose over his lips. It bubbled when he yelled.

  “Oh, alright,” she chuckled. “No more experiments.” Frank stared, shocked by Lydia’s finding this situation humorous.

  “Get this kid out of the house, now!” he yelled.

  Banished to the large tool shed in the backyard with an old, worn comforter and cot plus a rusty bucket for urine, Jason, fully drugged, never registered the cold.

  * * *

  Life in the Dubois house followed a combination of strategic planning and reaction to unexpected events. Lydia’s experiments with medication often led to the unexpected. With Jason out of the way in the shed, Lydia felt confident that their money machine was back on track. She stood at the kitchen sink and prepared the cups for Jason’s evening pills. The scream from upstairs demanded her immediate attention. She set the cups on the windowsill.

  Jogging up the stairs, Lydia found two girls fighting furiously. The smaller of the two had the larger girl by her ponytail. She snapped back her head and made the supreme effort to whirl her around the room. The bigger child had her hands on her hair desperate to ease the pain and free herself. She didn’t have the leverage and screamed. Lydia entere
d the melee and broke the iron-like grip of the younger girl. The two separated.

  “You little freak!” screamed the bigger girl. Tears flowed.

  The smaller girl smiled, saying nothing. Lydia’s mouth twitched. She respected the girl’s callousness in victory.

  “You,” she nodded to the older girl, “to the kitchen. You,” she pointed to the smaller, “stay exactly where you are. Nobody eats until you both calm down.” Lydia could not remember their names. She needed Frank, still at work, who had a knack for dealing with children. Lydia followed the girl to the kitchen and began to prepare dinner. The pills on the windowsill were forgotten.

  Chapter 2

  Bored and frustrated faces pressed against the windows in the school cafeteria. A hard rain lashed the playground in the afternoon. The wind whipped droplets looked like snakes slithering back and forth across the blacktop. The storm delayed the buses.

  Jason pulled back from the window. He looked around. No better time than now, he thought. Arthur Dresden sat with his gang. Something struck Jason as different. The usual anger and threatening looks were missing. Russ, his best friend, said complaints from Dresden’s usual targets stopped. He didn’t know what to make of it. Jason remembered the first time he confronted Dresden.

  It was the day he took tests to see if he could manage a regular classroom. Due to his psychotic diagnosis, Jason had missed two years of school. No records existed. After several hours of testing, he sought sanctuary on a bench near the swings. He wondered what would become of him; it had not gone well. The lunch bell rang.

  Children flooded the playground. Groups formed quickly according to age. The boys joined into teams for basketball or kickball; the girls gathered around the tables to talk. A few individuals stood; some sat alone and watched the activity. Others buried their heads in books. One group of boys did not participate in the sports. They stalked the area for targets. Their leader, an older boy with short black hair, patrolled the yard. He wore denim jeans and jacket with the collar pulled up and sauntered around the playground with his gang in his wake, like he owned the place. Jason sat alone, not paying much attention. He barely controlled the many new voices that screeched in his head.