Special Forces - 6. Chapter 6 Impulsive Decision

I was walking over to Blick’s one day to pick up a couple of tubes of paint and some pottery glaze when I spotted him. He was almost hidden, just inside a gated closure that contained an industrial sized garbage bin. Not much more than about three feet tall, he was standing still with his little brown hands held one over the other, as if waiting for a communion wafer at church.

I stopped and looked at him. He stood as still as a little statue looking back at me with big black eyes that were partially hidden by a fringe of greasy black hair. I stepped closer to him. He didn’t move but, he stared intensely at me. On closer inspection I could see that he was skinny and filthy, and even from a few feet away I could smell him. From the stench and the stain on his short pants I could tell he’d pissed, and probably pooped himself.

Something’s wrong, this kid needs help!

I squatted down remaining a few feet away.

“Como te llamas?” [what is your name?]

Silence.

“Me llamas Nick. Tu nombre? [my name is Nick. Your name?]

“Jorge,” he whispered.

“Well, Jorge, tienes hambre?” [are you hungry]

He nodded solemnly.

I looked around. Surely there must be a mother nearby. But I saw no one.

“Donde esta tu madre?” [where is your mother?]

“Durmiendo.” [sleeping]

“Okay, Jorge, espera aqui.” [wait here]

I made ‘stay where you are’ gestures with my hands, reverting to sign language because my Spanish was so limited.

He just stood still, with his little hands cupped, and continued to stare.

I went the cafe next door and bought a bottle of orange juice and a pastry and went back to him. When I gave him the muffin he stuffed it in his mouth and started ripping pieces off like he was starving. I was worried he might choke so I gently touched his wrists to slow him down. His arms felt like little sticks, but he stopped ripping at the muffin while he chewed what was in his mouth and swallowed. I took the top off the juice bottle, took the muffin from his hand, and gave him the juice. He drank it so fast that he started coughing and sputtering, so I pulled his little hands away from his mouth again.

“Despacio, Jorge, okay?” [slowly]

Jorge just stood and kept staring. I gave him back the muffin, and he ate it a little more slowly, alternating with drinks of juice which I gave him.

I was in a conundrum. I couldn’t leave this poor kid on the street alone, and there was no one around I could turn to. Jorge said his mother was ‘asleep’ whatever that meant. But what was I supposed to do?

I pulled out my phone and called Sam, who was thankfully on days off. “Can you come over to India Street? There’s a little kid here. He’s starving and dirty. He says his mother’s asleep. I can’t just leave him alone. I can’t speak enough Spanish to talk to him. Please, can you come down here right now? Please, Sam.”

“Whoa, Nick. No need to panic, okay? I’ll come right down, and we’ll sort this out. Probably by the time I get there his mom will come by. She’s probably looking for him right now. I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

While I waited, I spoke to Jorge in a mixture of English and French (illogically reverting to my native language), saying things like, “We’ll find your mama. Don’t worry. Everything will be okay....”

Jorge just stood and stared. He was probably thinking, Who the hell is this crazy gringo?

Eons later, when Sam arrived (it was only 20 minutes, but it seemed a lifetime) he squatted down and spoke to Jorge in Spanish. (Sam’s Spanish was good because he’d spent time working in Central and South America.)

At one point Jorge pointed up the street, and mumbled a few words. Sam nodded that he understood.

“Okay, he says his mama is up the street sleeping in some bush. He’s going to take us there now. And he says he’s still hungry. Can you grab another snack for him?”

I bought a bottle of chocolate milk and a bagel. Jorge seemed pretty happy with that. I broke off bits of the bagel and gave them to him as he led us up the street. We stopped for sips of milk after each bite of bagel.

Sam held his little hand as we walked.

We went a few blocks north, and I was wondering if Jorge knew where he was going, but he was holding Sam’s hand, and nodding yes or no to Sam’s questions, while pointing up the street.

Near where India Street comes close to the freeway, Jorge pointed to a clump of bushes and told Sam that his mama was sleeping there. Sam told Jorge to stay with me, and then he vaulted a fence and went to the bushes. He got within about ten feet of them and suddenly stopped. Then he inched forward and parted the bush. I heard him exclaim, “Shit!”

He turned and walked calmly back to us like a guy with not a care in the world.

“Nick, honey, could you call Sandy?” he said in a syrupy voice. “Act normal. We don’t want to scare Jorge any more than we have to, okay?”

Jorge reclaimed Sam’s hand.

I phoned Sandy, and when he answered I handed my phone to Sam. He put Jorge’s little hand into mine and walked off a few feet. I could only make out snippets of the conversation. “....yeah, she’s definitely dead....I don’t know, maybe a couple of days....”

Sam handed me back my phone and said that Sandy was coming right over. Then he led Jorge to a low wall where he lifted him up to sit. Sam sat beside him. Jorge scooted over and lent against Sam. Sam put his big arm around Jorge’s birdlike shoulders. And we waited.

Sandy pulled up in an unmarked police car with lights flashing. In the passenger seat sat a Hispanic woman. Sam pointed to the bush. Then a van arrived and the whole CSI pantomime started. Sandy introduced his partner, Yolanda, and she was able to talk to Jorge better than Sam could. All the while, Jorge held Sam’s hand.

Yolanda spoke to Jorge for several minutes. He shook his head mostly ‘no’ in response to Yolanda’s gentle questions. Eventually, he mumbled a few words. He looked up at Sam and said something further.

She told us that Jorge said that he and his mama ran away from bad men. They came to the bush and his mama went to sleep. Jorge has no knowledge of a father or other relatives. He thinks he has grandparents, but he has no idea where they are. He has no idea where he is and can’t articulate how long his mother had been in the bush. He has no concept of America or Mexico, although from Jorge’s accent he was most likely from there. His memories are all mixed up. He has no idea what his age is. He thinks Sam is a nice man, and he wants a piñata.

By this time the scene was swarming with cops and technicians. Crime scene tape was up and onlookers were being shooed away by uniformed officers.

Sam and I gave our statements to Yolanda who recorded the details in a notebook. She asked us to come to the police station later for more formal interviews.

Yolanda said she’d take Jorge to a social worker.

“No fucking way!” said Sam.

“You don’t have a choice,” said Yolanda.

“Nick, call Daniels, right now,” ordered Sam.

I got Susan on the phone and handed it to Sam. He filled Susan in on what was happening and said there was ‘no fucking way that Jorge was going to go into the system!’ He told Susan to get Smith to pull some strings. Then he walked away and continued speaking, but I couldn’t hear the rest of what he said.

When he came back, Yolanda told him he had no choice but to turn Jorge over to her. Sam said, “No fucking way!” then the two had a glaring contest.

“We’ll see,” she said as she walked away to talk to Sandy.

“Sam, what’s going on?”

“Jorge’s not going into the system, Nick. I can’t let that happen. He’s too fragile.”

“What’s the alternative, Sam?”

Sam raised his index finger and made a motion from him to me and back.

Was he saying what I think he was saying?

“You...uh...want us to take him?” I took a look at little Jorge holding Sam’s hand. Trusting Sam. I saw the pleading look in Sam’s eyes.

I nodded yes.

Sam beamed and his eyes became glassy.

“But Sam, how?”

“Smith is making some calls. Remember, Nick, they owe us for Montreal.”

A few minutes later Sam’s phone rang and his side of the conversation was: “Yes. Yes. Understood. Thank you.”

He closed the phone and gave me a thumbs up.

I saw Yolanda answer her cell phone, and her back stiffened. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I saw her gesticulating unhappily, then she nodded and snapped her phone shut. She marched over looking very angry.

To Sam she said, “Okay, asshole, I don’t know who you are, but I’ve been ordered by someone very high up to let you take the kid with you. But if you so much as look at that kid funny I’ll cut your balls off and feed them to you. Comprende amigo?”

Sam saluted. “Yes ma’am!”

Yolanda turned and clomped away.

Sam pulled out his keys and asked me if I’d mind going back to where he’d left his truck and bringing it over.

I ran down the street and was back within a few minutes. Sam got into the back seat with Jorge and buckled him into the middle seat as best he could. I noticed he’d grabbed one of the floor mats to put under Jorge’s little bum to protect the seat. Then he buckled up beside the little guy and told me to drive home.

Jorge remained silent. And neither Sam nor I spoke on the ride home fearing we might spook him.

I looked in the review mirror and saw Jorge asleep, leaning against Sam. Sam had his arm around Jorge’s shoulders again.

I parked and Sam slowly extracted a sleeping Jorge who’s little head flopped on Sam’s shoulder as we rode up to the apartment. Sam was oblivious to Jorge’s dirt saying that he’d dealt with a lot worse.

I put a large towel on the couch and Sam laid our sleeping boy there.

In the kitchen Sam and I finally had a chance to speak.

“Are you okay with this, Nicky? We’ll have to check a few things first, and confirm that the dead woman was his mother. And Sandy is canvassing the area to see if anybody knows the woman or Jorge. But if he really is alone in the world, would you be okay with adopting him?”

“Yes! Of course. Absolutely! But what do we do right now to take care of him?”

“Well, we’ve got to clean him up and maybe feed him again. I’ll call out for food. I have no idea what a little guy like him eats.”

“I’m sure he eats regular food. He’s not exactly a baby.

“And his clothes are filthy, Sam. He’s barefoot. What can we dress him in?”

“What about one of your t-shirts for now?”

“Okay. You call for food. I’ll jump in the car and run over to the Walmart on Imperial and grab some clothes and things.”

I took a measuring tape and measured Jorge. He was about 38 inches long. And I measured his tiny waist and his little feet.

I grabbed my keys and wallet and hurried over to Walmart, tape measure in hand.

It wasn’t hard to find children’s clothes that were about his size. I grabbed some simple elastic waist pants, a cute pair of jeans, underwear, pajamas and t-shirts. I found some cute, boy’s velcro running shoes. Then I picked up some little socks with airplanes on them.

I went to the toy section and bought a couple of picture books and a few toys that I thought Jorge might like. I really had no idea what would interest him. This was all trial and error.

It was only by chance that I spotted the car seats and realized I’d have to get one. I managed to waylay a clerk long enough for her to help me select one Jorge’s size.

Then I went to the food section and bought mac and cheese (all little kids like mac and cheese, right?), cereal, apple sauce, crackers, and some pre-made puddings.

I got home to find a cleaned-up Jorge, wearing one of my t-shirts, sitting on Sam’s knee at the kitchen bar, while Sam fed him bite sized pieces of enchilada.

Jorge was unperturbed by my arrival and Sam said, “El es Nick, mi novio.” [that’s Nick, my boyfriend]

Jorge opened his mouth for another fork-full of enchilada.

I set about unwrapping Jorge’s clothes and toys and laying them on the couch while Sam continued to feed Jorge.

When he started refusing more food, Sam took him over to the couch, and showed him his clothes and toys. Sam let Jorge choose what he wanted to wear. Then he pulled the t-shirt off and helped Jorge into his new little undies and pants. I was shocked when I saw Jorge naked. He was as thin as a bird. All his little ribs stood out clearly. It was all I could do not to cry.

Once Jorge was suited up, Sam told him what a handsome boy he was (in Spanish). Jorge listened attentively to Sam but didn’t smile or otherwise acknowledge him.

Then Sam sat Jorge on his knee and picked up a picture book. He slowly turned the pages and pointed out the animals. He asked Jorge if he knew what their names were, and Jorge just shook his head ‘no.’ Sam patiently pointed to the pictures and named them in Spanish: Pig, cat, dog and so forth. Sam got Jorge to repeat ‘dog’ and ‘cat’, but he wouldn’t say ‘pig’ or ‘duck.’

Sam pointed to himself and said in Spanish, “Sam. Can you say Sam?”

“Papa,” said Jorge as he snuggled into Sam and closed his eyes.

How had this big tough Navy SEAL bonded with a fragile little boy so quickly? It seemed miraculous to me.

“What’s he going to call me, Sam?”

“How about Papi? It’s also what Spanish kids call their dads.” Papa and Papi. That would work.

“Okay, but how can I bond with him? You and he bonded so fast. I’m not sure what to do. I want to hold him and comfort him too. I’m scared he won’t like it.”

“Tell you what. Tonight you can get him ready for bed. Then tomorrow I’ll leave early, hopefully before he’s awake, and give you time to get him cleaned up and dressed. Then you can feed him breakfast. You know enough Spanish to get through that, right? And if he cries in the night you can comfort him. How does that sound. Here, you hold him.”

So I picked up my little angle and held him against my chest as he slept contentedly. Sam made a little “nest” for him from towels, blankets and pillows next to our bed, then I had to wake Jorge up to put his pajamas on, but he remained dopy, wanting to go back to sleep. He made no objection to me taking care of him. I sat him on the toilet and he peed obediently. Then I tucked him into his little nest and he dropped off into a deep sleep.

Sam called Sandy and learned that a canvass of the area turned up no leads in the case.

Then he called Susan Daniels to confirm that we were serious about keeping Jorge.

She phoned back a little later to say she’d arranged a doctor’s appointment for the next day. The doctor would assess Jorge’s health, then call her once he’d established his approximate age. The doctor would also get a DNA sample to confirm that the dead woman was Jorge’s biological mother. Once Susan had enough facts, she’d have Bugs, the computer guy, create a birth certificate and adoption papers. She assured Sam that the documents would be airtight, with all the appropriate background information included. She asked what name should go on the adoption papers.

Sam told Susan to hold while we discussed that.

I told Sam in no uncertain terms that Jorge’s last name would be Kozitsky. I refused to argue the matter. I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes.

“I’ll only negotiate his middle names,” I said.

“Fine! Then his middle name is Nikolas,” declared Sam.

“And James,” I said.

“Jorge Nikolas James Kozitsky,” Sam told Susan.

Sam and I talked quietly in the living room that evening making a list of things we needed to do. It was a long list.

Jorge was sleeping soundly when we went to bed. We just made out for a bit, mostly kissing, but we didn’t feel comfortable ‘going all the way’ with Jorge just a few feet away. We drifted off to sleep jammed together face to face with persistent erections.

A few hours later—in the middle of the night—Jorge woke up crying. Sam suggested that I take care of the little guy so he’d get to know me better.

I stumbled out of bed to discover that he’d pissed his bed and was soaking wet. I picked him up and carried him into the bathroom. I pulled off his pajamas then used a washcloth to clean him (and me) up. I’d only bought one pair of pj’s, so I dressed him in clean underpants and a t-shirt. All his bedding was damp, so I just picked it up and threw it into the shower stall.

I took him back to our bed and cuddled him to my chest.

Sam mumbled sleepily, “You’re a good dad, Nick.” Then he snuggled to my back and wrapped his big arm around both of us.

Sam got up quietly at 6 am and kissed me goodbye. “See you in a couple of hours. I love you,” he whispered.

Jorge started to wake up about an hour later, so I got him up and put him on the toilet. Once again, he peed obediently. I took his hand and led him to the kitchen. He was compliant and quiet.

I sat him on a stool at the kitchen island. I spoke French to him thinking it might sound more familiar than English, but I used Spanish words when I could remember them. I poured a small glass of orange juice. Then I put some cheerios in a bowl and added milk. For good measure I cut up half a banana and added that to the cereal.

I started a pot of coffee for myself.

Jorge watched all this intently.

I place the orange juice, the bowl of cereal and a spoon in front of Jorge. He used two hands to pick up the juice and drank it quickly. Then quick as a wink, he put his right hand into the bowl and pulled out a fistful of cereal, bananas and milk and stuffed that into his mouth. Milk and soggy cheerios rained down the front of his shirt.

Shocked, I grabbed his stick-like wrist just as he was about to reach in for another handful. He shot daggers at me with his big, dark eyes.

Ah, so my little boy isn’t so placid after all. He has a bit of a temper.

I held his little hand gently and placed the spoon into it, helping him get a proper grip. Then I guided the spoon into the bowl, scooped up some cereal and banana and brought it to his mouth. Placidly, he accepted my help. So I took my hand off his and pointed to the bowl. He gave me another challenging look, and then threw down the spoon which clattered noisily across the counter and onto the floor. He swiftly snatched up another handful of muck and shoved it into his mouth, again leaving a trail of glop down his front.

That little bastard! ..... Whoa, Nick, do NOT lose your cool.

I grabbed his wrist just as he was reaching in for another fistful. If looks could kill, I’d be dead.

Okay, so one child and one adult are locked in a battle of wills. I had no experience with this sort of thing. My thoughts raced as I tried to come up with a solution that would restore peace. It seemed that Jorge hadn’t been taught to use a spoon, and that for him, food was to be eaten quickly, because he didn’t know when he’d get another meal. Maybe now wasn’t the time to teach a lesson in table manners. We had lots of time for that in the future.

I got an idea that might, just might, allow both of us to save face.

I took the bowl and glass away. Jorge wasn’t looking daggers at me anymore; he had retreated to his placid manner, but he continued to observe me. I put the bowl and glass on the counter near the sink. Taking my time, I pulled a small plate from the cupboard onto which I poured a helping of cheerios. I took the remaining half banana and cut it into rounds and placed them on the plate as well. I refilled his glass with juice. Then I took a paper towel and dried Jorge’s hands and face. He accepted my care with equanimity.

Then I placed the plate and glass in front of him and said softly: “Dulcemente, Jorge.” [gently]

He gave me an inscrutable look then reached out slowly and picked up one piece of banana and placed it in his mouth. He hardly chewed the banana before swallowing, but this was progress. He continued to eat like that until the plate was clean. Then he calmly picked up his glass of juice and drank.

I thought, Hallelujah!

“Mas?” I asked.

He shook his head ‘no.’

I kissed him on the forehead. “Te amo hijo mio.”

Just then Sam came through the door. He kissed me on the cheek then kissed the top of Jorge’s head. “Hola mi amigo.

“How’s it going, Nicky?”

“Good! Well, sort of good....he’s had breakfast.”

“Time for a poop?”

I picked Jorge up and handed him to Sam, “Go for it big guy.”

Sam smirked and headed off to the bathroom while blowing raspberries on Jorge’s neck. I thought I heard a little boy’s giggle.

I sat at the kitchen bar and drank my coffee while I ruminated on all the things that needed doing just to get Jorge settled in. Today was going to be a busy day.

Sam was back in no time carrying a clean looking little munchkin on his hip. He’d dressed Jorge in jeans and a Spiderman t-shirt. On his feet were the airplane socks.

“Jorge, you look so handsome!” I exclaimed. Jorge’s little mouth formed the hint of a smile, and my heart melted. There was no turning back. Jorge was our son. Sam and I were going to be the best dads in the world.

Susan had arranged a pediatrician’s appointment for 10 am, so that gave us just enough time to have our showers and get ready to go. I remembered to prepare a snack for Jorge. I put some cut up apple and orange in a baggie. I grabbed a pudding cup. And a spoon.

We put on Jorge’s little shoes but when we put him on the floor he refused to move. He looked at his feet and said, “No!”

He wasn’t used to wearing shoes. So Sam picked him up and carried him.

Sam had installed the car seat in the back seat of his truck, and Jorge offered no resistance to being buckled in, and off we went. He, of course, remained silent on the drive over to the doctor’s, but I frequently turned around to check on him and say a few soothing words. I noticed that he was looking around intently, both at the passing scenery and the truck’s interior.

We discussed our list of things to do. Sam said adopting Jorge, and integrating him into our life, was like any ‘op.’ The process might seem overwhelming at first, but when you broke it down into small bits it was doable.

The pediatrician spoke Spanish and had a kind manner. He gave Jorge the once-over while I sat in the corner of the examination room. Then he asked me join Sam in the waiting room, and he called in his nurse.

After about 20 minutes, he brought a re-dressed Jorge out and then led us to his office. There he explained that, judging from Jorge’s size and teeth, he was about 4 years old. He said Jorge’s reactions were all normal, and he didn’t think there were any developmental or neurological problems. He further explained that Jorge seemed alert and intelligent, but that he didn’t seem to have been taught much. For instance, Jorge didn’t seem to understand numbers, whereas most 4 year olds could count the first few numbers.

He said he’d checked Jorge from top to bottom, and except for having calloused feet, he had no other marks. There were no signs of any physical or sexual abuse.

The doctor found no obvious health problems but suggested we take him to a pediatric dentist and ophthalmologist. He also said that Jorge appeared to be suffering from mild malnutrition. He gave us a little poop test kit saying that he wanted to rule out any intestinal parasites. He told us to start giving Jorge a child’s multi-vitamin every day.

He then told us pretty much the same as Yolanda had. Jorge thought his mother had run away from bad men, and that she was asleep in the bush. He was unaware of where he’d come from and had no knowledge of a father, grandparents, uncles, aunts or friends.

He also said that he’d drawn blood to be tested—he pointed out a little band aid on the inside of Jorge’s elbow—and that he’d taken a mouth swab for DNA testing. He told us that we would know for sure by the end of the day whether the deceased woman was his mother or not.

“I don’t know who you people are,” the doctor said. “But you can sure cut through red tape.”

Next it was back to Walmart to buy a little bed and linens. We’d decided to move one of the dressers out of our bedroom and put it in the hall. With a little rearranging his bed would fit. The second bedroom had, of course been turned into my studio. And at any rate, we thought it would be wise for Jorge to sleep nearby for at least the first few weeks. We ruled out using Sam’s apartment because he assured me mine felt more like home than his did.

“One step at a time,” said Sam.

While at Walmart I picked up more clothes for Jorge. A couple more pairs of pajamas. A little bathing suit. Shorts. T-shirts. And I let Jorge pick out a stuffed toy. He chose a cute little monkey which he only reluctantly let go of when it had to be scanned by the cashier.

Sam went to sporting goods and picked up a child-sized life preserver.

Sam hefted the bed box and mattress into the bed of the truck while I held Jorge and fed him bits of apple.

We decided to stop at McDonald’s for lunch. Damn, I hadn’t been a parent for 24 hours and already we were at the golden arches.

Sam ordered a Happy Meal for Jorge and coffees for him and me. Jorge perked right up when he saw the Happy Meal box. Sam managed to get him to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ I held the monkey while Jorge ate, but he held his hands out for it the minute he finished.

After he’d eaten Sam led him off to pee. Jorge didn’t object to walking in his little shoes this time, but he stepped funny, like he was walking through mud.

It wasn’t any one big thing, but we could see Jorge gradually warming to us. His expression became less guarded. He smiled when I jiggled the monkey and made funny monkey noises. He repeated the words when I pointed out the monkey’s eye, nose, mouth and so forth.

That afternoon passed in a blur. Sam got the bed set up while Jorge, the monkey, and I had a nap on the couch.

Later, Sam read the little books to Jorge and Monkey.

Jorge ate his pudding with a spoon, an accomplishment for which he was praised lavishly.

The doctor phoned to tell us that DNA testing confirmed that the dead woman was definitely Jorge’s biological mother.

Jorge struggled eating dinner. He preferred one of us to feed him, but we put the fork in his little hand a few times and guided it to his mouth. He made a good effort—he seemed to be seeking our approval—and he responded positively to praise.

Sam and I were reinforcing the names ‘Papa’ and ‘Papi,’ and Jorge repeated them. He was getting the idea.

By the time we got him tucked into his little bed, and he and Monkey were asleep, Sam and I were exhausted.

We cuddled on the couch and talked. Yes, the sudden change in our life was monumental, but together we’d cope.

Sam was due back at work the next day, and I assured him that Jorge and I would be fine on our own.

“What about your art?” Sam asked.

“I can work on it when Jorge is asleep or when you’re on days off. And Jorge will probably be going to preschool soon. Meanwhile, when life gives you apples, you make apple pie.”

“I thought the expression was ‘when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade’?”

“No, Jorge is definitely not a lemon.”

Hello Dear Readers,
I don't speak Spanish, so if I've screwed up the words please let me know so I can do an edit.  Thanks
And....
I'm going on vacation for 10 days.  The next chapter will be published on March 5th.  Sorry for the delay!
Z