Burning America: In The Best Interest Of The Children?

By G. Mick Smith

This fictional account exposes the dark underbelly of the custody industry in American villages. Children are treated like footballs and are simply kicked from place to place, parental rights are routinely violated, often with one parent who is considered no more than a paycheck, and the custody enterprise of judges, lawyers, and counselors prof

• Language: English
• Publisher: GMick Smith
• Release date: Aug 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956353242

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Don’t Leave Home Without It

No parent prepares for a child to be taken.

Nixon died with his eighteen minute tape and I guess Kaitrin has a videotape as well.

Before we left California for Pennsylvania, my wife, Anne, had her sister videotape us at our baptism going away party as the Theus Family. On the tape, not once did Anne touch or hold Kaitrin. Anne insisted on flowers on Kaitrin’s head during her baptism at St. Johannes and people laughed when our baby wouldn’t stop crying. Once alone with Kaitrin I saw why. Anne used pins to keep the flowers in place; I removed Kaitrin’s crown of pins. Anne rarely saw Kaitrin early on. While Kaitrin crawled, walked, and developed between her first ten weeks of life and eight months old, Anne worked double shifts six days a week and, God bless her, she was too tired on the weekends to be involved with our family activities.

I serenaded Kaitrin nightly while rocking the baby to sleep, singing, You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. Baby was conceived using NFP (Natural Family Planning) as the Church favored. And, before sleep, no need to burn these blessed baby diapers after changing them. They did not smell like all the horror stories you hear. ‘She’s a keeper’ as they say.

Kaitrin’s eyes danced to the fluttering fire engine red of the cardinals, the swift blue jays, and the full-breasted subdued red robins that chirped outside her bedroom window. At twilight, we hearkened to and spotted these winged visitors. As night crept to her cozy room, the walls revealed decorative stars, moons, and the Big Dipper. Kaitrin tranquilly fell asleep despite her squeaky rocking chair. I commissioned an artist to portray the Pennsylvania state bird and a sign that read Kaitrin on one street intersecting with Theus as the cross street.

Anne saw little of Kaitrin as a baby but when Kaitrin was five Anne increasingly left Kaitrin alone and with other people to watch. Typically, I would come home from work and have to track down where Kaitrin was and get her fed to put her to bed for the night.

One day I returned home to find the house stripped. It was obvious from the driveway. With the curtains gone it was easy to look in and find an empty house. The house looked even worse now. It was bad enough before. The deferred maintenance rancher was drab but now it looked disheveled too. The stone faux front was typical Post-War Levittown, Pennsylvania architecture. I had tried to liven up the interior a bit though and spruced up the front too by showing off the matching wood and green flower pattern throughout. Then I tore out the carpets to show the wooden floors and matching exposed wooden beams on the ceilings. Now the house looked abandoned.

I ran to the door yelling for our five-year-old child, Kaitrin! Kaitrin! I feared she was gone.

I unlocked the dead bolted door, a quick look through the empty house revealed that anything valuable, but not nailed down, was long gone: furniture, antiques, pets, child, and whatever we accumulated in over eleven years of marriage.

Okay, I thought. The stuff is gone. Fine. But Kaitrin?

Fighting back my panic, I spotted the tip of a note on the floor where the dining room table used to be, tucked in a book about the Jon Bonet Ramsay child murder.

Dear Paul, I’m going away for a while. I’ll call you later. – Anne

Oh my God! Kaitrin’s gone. She took our little girl away from me.

More panic-stricken than before, I tried to think clearly. What should I do? Who shall I call? The police? Parents? School? Wife’s friends? Where could Kaitrin be?

My first call was to the school.

Ms. Donna, the Extended Hours secretary at Kaitrin’s school, this is Kaitrin Theus’ father. Is Kaitrin still there?

Just a sec, Dr. Theus, lemme’ check. No. I heard papers rustling, Kaitrin was picked up by the Johnsons today.

Okay, thanks.

No answer at the Johnsons when I phoned. But Kaitrin was often left with my wife’s friends. I went through my Rolodex calls. There was no one home but I couldn’t just wait. I had to do something.

I ran to my rented car; my old reliable Honda wagon had died. Kaitrin and I had to walk home when it bit the dust. Bought it just before I met her mother. Funny. Gone now. Rented cars never fit right. Ouch! Bumped my knee again getting in. Rentals are always too small for my 6’2" 198 frame, too short for hoops but too tall for rentals. But Kaitrin did like green so she fell instantly in love with this car and to me the engine murmured soothingly. I couldn’t dispel that queasy feeling gnawing at my gut. I drove along Conestoga Avenue, Main drag. There had to be a cop along here. My eyes spotted a North Blackland Township police officer.

Officer, may I file a missing person’s report? My wife left a note that she has our daughter. I surveyed his uniform. It was immaculately pressed with regular navy-blue pants and his blue shirt had a badge pinned to his right side while the radio attached to his shoulder epaulet. I’m not sure how I had the presence of mind to do so but I noted his badge number and name, Carl Harris.

Person gone more than forty-eight hours? The officer didn’t remove his glaring, intimidating cop glasses, like the kind you wear on the ski slopes, shiny, reflective lenses, can’t see eye type. The policeman stared down at me.

Well, I don’t know how long she’s gone, just a kid, only five, our daughter, Kaitrin. She may be at a neighbor’s, the Johnsons.

Below the shiny lenses and in the corner of his lip trickled brown ooze.

The cop spat out a slug of tobacco.

You can’t file a report since you don’t know how long your daughter has been gone.

Can’t you call?

The peace officer glared but said nothing while he stretched for the phone in his patrol car.

Keith Johnson was home from work. He informed me that my wife’s newfound best friend, Silena Diaz, had driven my wife and Kaitrin to the airport.

The airport! Where did they go? California the radio crackled.

Kaitrin and I hadn’t been apart more than three days on my longest academic trip. We were close, especially because my wife wanted to go right back to work after our baby’s birth. We have been in Pennsylvania since Kaitrin was ten weeks old. Anne worked her double shifts at the hospital until Kaitrin was eight months old, so I provided primary care six days a week. Even after my professorship began at the University, I arranged a teaching schedule to accommodate Kaitrin’s needs.

Me? Paul M. Theus, PhD, mid-forties, slender, short beard, looked like Russell Crowe in The Gladiator. I was no hero today. I was simply scared and totally unprepared.

The policeman seemed genuinely sympathetic now, but there was little he could do. No evidence that Kaitrin was in imminent danger. The little girl was with her mother after all, and although this cross-country trip was unannounced, kidnapping seemed a bit hasty to conclude. He advised me what I could do. He suggested I could contact the local police department in California to check on Kaitrin’s welfare.

The most likely destination that my wife would show up would be at my mother-in-law’s house, Harriet P. Dough, in Orange County, near my sister Sally’s house. Sally introduced me to Anne, in the same conservative, religious culture, products of a similar upbringing, and Sally thought Anne and I were a good match. I called Harriet’s, left a message, and waited.

The living room echoed without any furnishings. I sat on the bare floor to get my bearings. What was gone? The red antique dry sink that was just inside the front door, the 1700s corner cabinet possibly made in our own county, the antique rug beater, all gone. Any valuables not nailed down were gone. Funny thing was, the antique poster bed headboard sat disconsolately alone, still bolted to the wall because whoever removed the rest of the bed apparently couldn’t get it taken apart quickly enough. The headboard stood as a silent sentinel and the only witness to what must have been a feverish day.

I called to check the status of our bank accounts. Just as I suspected, emptied, all our money was gone too. Naïve as I was, it suddenly dawned on me why Anne had pushed so hard to get that Castle Federal Credit Union loan for home repairs. Since my reliable Honda wagon had recently died, I depended on the rental until I could buy a car. I checked my pockets for cash, how much did I have? $5.85, I won’t get far on that. Isn’t it funny what people value most? Never one to bank much on money, still, with no car and no money. Practically speaking, my financial situation was getting grim.

Recently, one night at dinner, a neighbor, Silena, Anne, and I speculated about what was most valuable to each of us. The parlor room conversation was, What if there was a fire in your house and you had to get out quickly, what would you take?’ Kids, pets, spouse, and family pictures were the typical replies.

Pictures! I stared at the picture. Odd, wasn’t it? Any disposable asset was indeed gone; anything that could be sold at a profit was removed. But Kaitrin’s largest oversized baby picture, the one we both beamed over as proud parents, still stood in pride of place in the living room. Pink headband, a "Cool Hand Luke’’ smile, reaching for a chocolate chip cookie. Kaitrin was there, beaming on the wall as always. Odd that it was not considered valuable enough to take. A baby picture is only valuable to loving parents and Kaitrin had two: a mom and a dad.

I was pulled from my reverie when my phone blared and echoed throughout the empty house and jolted me out of my musings. Who the devil could that be I wonder? Kaitrin?

Telemarketer. They think this is an affluent area, but this place is blessed with being poor in spirit: maybe a mixed blessing.

The Main Line: Bryn Mawr, Swarthmore, and Villanova set the local standards for fashionable WASPish living immortalized in the 1930s Philip Barry play, The Philadelphia Story. This story popularized privileged suburban life in the 1940 movie version starring Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, and James Stewart.

Proud of their superiority over their distant city cousins, the typical North Blacklander inhabitant is Upper Main Line in orientation. They feel smugly superior to city dwellers but mistakenly think of themselves as part and parcel of Katharine Hepburn’s privileged social elite. This place near Valley Forge used to have a history but was built by Post-War sprawl, its strip mall, USA.

I know Anne well and she is no Katharine Hepburn. Five foot four and always fighting the family weight problem, God bless her husky build. Met her on a blind date my sister set up, told Anne straight off I was leaving California so she knew from the first where I stood. Not that I’d dated much in grad school, hardly at all, but my biological clock was ticking. Anne also wanted a child. Frugal PhDs teaching the liberal arts were not exactly babe magnets. We got engaged within six weeks.

Anne lived on her own, graduated high school, a couple years of Radiologic Technologist training and she could work with as little education as possible. She hated school, but being a Rad Tech got her a job straight away and free from her oppressive mother.

People who met her loved her. She was like Cher, a charismatic celebrity type. Always entertaining, Anne thrived on attention and it enthralled people. Tart or virgin, Anne could play any role, like the Apostle Paul, she was all things to all people.

Once Anne abandoned the house totally, I had access to the spare bedroom that she had separated herself to four months before--with her hand-written note of 12 December 1998--when she dead bolted the extra room and kept the only key to herself. But the room was now open for inspection.

Papers were scattered everywhere around the lone standing antique headboard, still bolted to the wall. Obviously, the movers had left hurriedly.

A brochure with the word PIERCING in capital letters stuck out conspicuously among the debris and caught my eye. I picked it up and read a section entitled: Special Care for Genital Piercings.

"Aftercare for genital piercings [sic] is the same as most other piercings, with antibacterial soap being the recommended cleaning solution. These piercings are some of the quickest to heal, so care for them is often very easy. Simply follow the instructions under `Basic Piercing Care.’

"Sexual activity should be avoided for the first two weeks after getting a genital piercing, but it is not prohibited during the entire healing. If you do have sex during this time, do not subject the area of the piercing to a lot of abuse, and be sure to clean the piercing immediately afterward. Men should wear a condom and women should consider similar protection to reduce the risk of infection. Unprotected oral sex should be avoided during the entire healing period. Pay attention to the piercing [sic], and you should be able to realize when you are abusing it more than you should be.

Warm salt water baths can significantly speed healing and sooth piercings. Add 1/4 cup sea salt, epsom salt, or even table salt to hot bath water. Soak as often as possible in the first two weeks, especially the first night. This also helps ease the pain and itching.

Fascinating. I turned the brochure over; it was from a piercing parlor in the Bohemian South Street section of Philadelphia. A loose piece of paper slipped out and fell to the floor.

According to the receipt, nineteen days earlier Anne got her labia pierced. She had gotten a bead and gold ring. With her navel piercing and jewelry this had cost her $143.00. I referred back to the brochure to discover that depending on what part of her labia was pierced; healing would take two to twelve weeks.

Now more than ever, I knew what I had to do.

Coffee helped me think clearly, so I went for a cup at the Wawa convenience store. I opened my car door and her high-pitched voice smacked me. Laughing, joyful, and playful, a little girl clutched her dad’s hand and her mirth echoed off the store glass panes. I turned around on my heels and got back in my car. I didn’t get coffee that day.

I drove right home. Silena, what do you want?

Fat and forty, as the sexists say, describes Silena. She is a big-boned woman with two elementary age Fetal Alcohol Syndrome kids, speech impediment and all. She had curly hair, she was chatty, and she had a cock on the walk, domineering, and haughty bearing. Silena hailed from the Caribbean, and she had a handicapped sticker for her car, though I never saw a visible handicap. Anne told me Silena was pierced also; the less I knew, and where, the better. Silena was the campaign manager for the progressive Supervisor who swept her opponent in the last Township election. Also, Silena was recently estranged from her husband, Dan, who had left the home. And she lived three doors down from us.

The only real contact I had with Silena’s husband Dan was a fish dinner Anne and I had with them, in happier days, just two days before his departure. He was a quiet, good guy according to my pre-dinner instructions, and then, once he left, he was a no-good physically abusive person. I don’t know what the truth is; I guess my perception depended on what the neighborhood Yentas Silena and Anne thought I should think. I would just rather not be involved in their personal lives, and it would have been preferable if Silena were not in ours. All I wanted from Silena was that when Kaitrin was with her, I could get our kid and get on my way. Lately, Silena had a live-in beau since she kicked her husband out.

I happened to catch Silena outside. What is going on? I demanded.

What do you think? She smirked while surveying the debris of the recent move. I neglected to lock the door, especially since the valuables were gone.

Well I understand that Kaitrin is on her way to California. Do you know anything about it? She glanced up disdainfully at me while she crossed her arms. She appeared to be looking for something amongst the papers.

Sure, I dropped Anne off at the airport, but I’m not saying where Anne is going. How are you making out? She smiled fully then.

What’s it to you? Do you know what’s going on? Is Kaitrin okay? Anne left a note, but it didn’t say much. I started a mental list while talking—school, Grandmother, two Aunts—things to gauge what Silena knew.

Silena paused. Then she said, barely whispering, There’s nothing to be concerned about.

I cocked my head, leaning forward and strained to hear. And Kaitrin?

She smirked again. Happy.

She is happy to see strangers? I grinned.

Louder she said, Anne’s family counts too, and she released the Palm Sunday branch pinned on my wall and it fell to the floor.

She took a step closer. Kaitrin does not know them.

I smelled something like whisky on her breath as I instinctively backed away reaching for the red antique dry sink behind me. I forgot it’s gone. I retreated while stumbling back into a stack of bills which fell over.

She laughed. Anne needs a break. And she stepped on the Easter Palm branch that had fallen.

Can I get Kaitrin back?

Silena fluttered away. Work it out with Anne.

Kaitrin does not know Anne’s family. I picked up the Palm, and I stayed within earshot.

I think she plans on coming back after she is ready; but, I’m not telling you where she went. Silena stepped away and out the door.

At a safe distance, I said, Kaitrin was only ten weeks old when we left California.

Hey, talk to Anne about that. You know Anne is my friend and I would do anything for her. And she turned on her heels and was gone as fleetingly as she had appeared. Call me later; maybe I’ll know more then. She beat a retreat but I didn’t know what she had been