was and that she was unable to afford a proper home for me. The judge said, “Until there is capable earning power by the mother and a decent stable home for Charles to return to, I am making him a ward of the court and placing him in a boys’ home.” At that moment, the words didn’t mean anything to me. I was angry at Mom and didn’t want to live with her and her friend. I wasn’t depressed or disturbed. The shock was still a day away.
The court placed me in a religious-oriented school, the Gibault Home for Boys in Terre Haute, Indiana. I felt all right while being registered in the school office, but when all the papers were completed things started going wacky in my head and stomach. By the time I was escorted to the dormitory I would live in for the next ten months, I felt sick. I couldn’t breathe. Tears ran down my cheeks, my legs were so rubbery I could hardly walk. Some invisible force was crushing my chest and stealing my life away from me. I loved my mother! I wanted her! “Why, Mom? Why is it this way? Come and get me, just let me live with you. I won’t be in your way!” I was lonely, lonelier than I had ever been in my life. I have never felt that lonely since. I wasn’t angry at her anymore. I just wanted to be with her, live with her, under any conditions. Not in some school locked away from everything.
After the initial shock, the following days weren’t too bad. The Catholic brothers who ran the school were good enough to me, but they were stern in their discipline. The answer to any infraction of the rules was a leather strap, or wood paddle, and lost privileges. Since I had a problem with wetting the bed, it seemed like I was getting more than my share of whippings for something I had no control over.
At twelve I wasn’t the youngest boy there, but being under five feet tall and weighing less than sixty-five pounds, I was one of the smallest. I was easy pickings for those who were inclined to be bullies. Gibault was not considered a reform school, but aside from the religious teachings it operated in a similar manner. And though guys there were not necessarily juvenile delinquents, they did share the same resentments against parents, the law and confinement as those in reform schools. I was exposed to a lot of things the average kid doesn’t experience until a much older age. It never happened to me there, but I saw kids forced into homosexual acts. I was told about all kinds of ways to beat the law, and I learned how to keep my feelings to myself, because if you care too much about a part of your life and personal habits, others will take advantage of it and ridicule you. Gibault taught me friends can be cruel and enemies dangerous.
Mom would come to see me sometimes, but not all that often. If she said she’d see me next week, I’d be lucky if she showed up in the next couple of months. When she did come, she’d tell me, “It won’t be long before I have a steady job and a nice place to live. Then I’ll come and get you and take you home with me.” We’d talk about how nice it was going to be when we were back together. I was starting to grow and was definitely older in mind. I felt I could be a big help to her if she would take me home. It all sounded great and I was eager to start living the life we talked about. She’d leave and I’d run back to my friends, telling them, “Pretty soon I’ll be going home. My mom said so.” The next visit would be the same. “Pretty soon, Charlie,” were my mother’s words. I waited and waited. It didn’t happen.
Sick of Gibault and tired of waiting, I ran away. Naturally I went straight to Mom’s. I thought I could show her how grown up I was and how I could help her. There was no guilt trip in my mind about running away; I was sure my mom would throw her arms around me, as glad to see me as I was to be there with her. She’d take me down to the judge and tell him she was in a position to take care of us. Everything would be all right. God, was I dreaming! She turned me in and the next day I was back at the Home for Boys. But I didn’t feel like a boy any longer. There were no tears. At least, none that ran down my cheeks. I didn’t feel weak or sick, but I also knew I could no longer smile or be happy. I was bitter and I knew real hate.
The trip back to Gibault was a waste of gas and time. I split the very first chance I got. Goodbye Gibault. Goodbye Mom.
CHAPTER 2
I HAD LEARNED my lesson. Thanks to the memory of my own mother rejecting me and turning me in, my philosophy was trust no one and depend on no one. As for a place to run to, I felt my chances of staying lost and out of sight of the police would be better in a big city rather than a small town. Indianapolis was my choice.
Terre Haute and the Gibault School for Boys are about a hundred and sixty miles from Indianapolis. Once safely away from the school, I knew better than to try reaching my destination by way of the roads and highways. I trudged through fields and over hills, staying out of sight. I walked the railroad tracks some and hopped a freight train for a short way. I slept in the woods and under bridges. I met bums, winos and hobos, who shared their meals with me. Most people place all those derelicts in the same category, but I found there is a definite distinction between them. A bum is a guy who is down and out, maybe one who is too lazy to work and survives by begging. A wino has become so hooked on his booze that he is a social outcast, he cares for nothing but the lush and how to acquire it. A hobo is on the road because that is his chosen lifestyle. Some are honest and survive by their wits, also doing a little work here and there. Others are into doing anything that will provide for the day’s needs, and stealing and lying are as natural as breathing to them. I lived and ate with these guys until reaching Indianapolis, and through them I learned an awful lot about survival without the luxuries of a house and modern conveniences.
When I got to Indy I slept in the alleys and old sheds until the night I got a bonus while burglarizing a grocery store for something to eat. The cash register change for the next morning was in a cigar box under the counter. When I opened the box and saw the money I thought I was rich and didn’t even bother to cart out any of the groceries I was stealing. It was a little over a hundred dollars, more money than I’d ever had in my hands before. I rented a room in skid row, bought me some clothes, ate as much as I liked and spent the money like there was no tomorrow. A few days later I was broke and hungry. I started making my way on the streets any way I could. I’d sweep store fronts, wash windows, clean garbage cans, anything that might earn me a few cents. I’d also steal whatever I could get my hands on, and sell the goods to anybody for any kind of price. I doubt if I averaged a penny on the dollar for the value of what I sold, but for a snot-nosed kid, I was feeling pretty chesty and thought I was getting up in the world. I was getting by without starving, had my own room and was my own boss.
I had accumulated a wealth of experience and I thought I really knew what the world was all about, but my run-away from Gibault only lasted a few weeks. I had stolen a bike for the joy of having one, as well as for transportation. It was that bike that got me caught. When the police arrested me, the juvenile authorities couldn’t believe that a twelve-year-old kid could be living by himself. It took them a few days to discover that I was a runaway from a home for boys. Once they knew that, they located my mom. She appeared in juvenile court with me, but she was still unable to tell the judge that she could take me back to a good home.
The judge was a sympathetic guy who really didn’t want to send me to a reform school. He arranged for Father Flanagan’s Boys Town to accept me. I didn’t stick around long enough for the results they got with Mickey Rooney in the film Boys Town. No fault of the school’s; I just wasn’t into the discipline, and running away had become as much a part of my nature as stealing. Four days after being checked in at Boys Town, me and another guy split. We stole a car, wrecked it, pulled a couple of armed robberies and finally made it back to Indianapolis. At Indianapolis, we went to my new partner’s uncle’s house. The uncle was a World War II vet who was living on disability. He was also a thief, and his nephew and I fit right into his program. He was as glad we showed up as we were to have a place to stay. In no time at all he had lined up places for us to burglarize. It was kind of a one-way street, since my partner and I did all the dirty work but the uncle took the big end of the money.
We got caught going through the skylight of the third place he had cased for us. When the cops arrested us they
